The Tau Hypothesis
by AeonBlue
Summary: When a concussion sidelines a wrestler with a history of injury, he finds himself rebuilding more than his sense of confidence as he rehabs, thanks to a roommate he can't quite figure out.
1. Christmas Trees and Mayonnaise

Skidding across the announce table went just fine – the usual shit poked and prodded, but that was normal – the long flight across the table led to the floor, which was fine, and culminated in an abrupt landing into freshly vacated chairs; no, it was the _legs_ of the chairs that were the problem. Nick had always been able to keep track of which end was up no matter how quick the flip or sharp the spin, so he certainly wasn't too disoriented to prepare for what was next. His hand, however, was stuck between the legs of two of the announce chairs. That, well – that was _absolutely_ preventing him from further preparation.

Yanking harder only led to the chairs gripping deeper into Nick's hand. Their legs had him caught behind his knuckles, across his palm, and he couldn't work any part of himself through the space. One chair was angled down, the other up, effectively levering their legs across each other with his hand trapped in the gap between. Pulling forward just brought the chairs further forward into him, which didn't do him any good. Nick knew he'd just end up getting kicked back into the chairs when the blows came, and coming they were. If he was going to minimize the impact of the impending kicks, it was going to be either by bunching into a turtle on the floor or reaching across himself in an awkward, off-handed block. Neither made for good television, and nobody stage-side had yet figured out that he needed at least one chair moved before his fingers went from red to purple.

None of this was obvious to the two-legged jar of mayonnaise trundling toward him at high-speed, leaving Nick with the unpleasant task of deciding whether de-gloving his fingers was an acceptable alternative to getting his orbitals broken by a boot he couldn't properly defend against. Normally, he'd have no problem absorbing half the move and selling the hell out of it, but with his tilted position on the floor, "half" wasn't an option. This was going to be full-throttle footwear, times three. _'Off-handed block, check. I'm going to look like such a pussy. Great job, Nemeth, you lose to a fucking chair.'_ Complicating matters was the not-so-negligible fact that his opponent tended to work with all the finesse of a bulldozer. There wasn't much hope he'd see Nick was trapped on the floor and thus stop after one kick, or pull up more than usual and launch into theatrics and ranting rather than physical antics.

Nope. Physical antics were Stephen's schtick. Beat the fuck out of the problem – or opponent – and bumble around the microphone later, if at all. Nick knew he was supposed to lose; it was all part of the build-up to their match at the next pay per view, so it wasn't the idea of losing that bothered him. It was the idea of taking three solid shots to the head from a person who really should have known better that bothered him.

* * *

"Birds, Brena? Hazel's birds?"

She stopped raising the head of the hospital bed and the high-pitched noise stopped along with the motion, silencing the chirping that filled the room.

"No, Uncle Deaglan. It's just the bed. Something's stuck. I have to call maintenance."

"Hazel, Brena. Hazel. Here! Where? Hazel!"

Brena sighed, smiled, shook her head, and continued raising the head of the bed – just as Deaglan continued repeating himself about Hazel and her birds. On the one hand, her uncle had just uttered the most words he'd said in a week. On the other, the words were complete babble about his dead wife and her pet parakeets, and he'd also let slip that despite being in the same neurological center in Philadelphia for months – coming up on a year since the project had started – he had absolutely no idea where he was.

Smoothing down his hair and reaching for his hand, Brena gave it a gentle squeeze once she located it under the sheets and blankets. "Uncle D. Focus. Breakfast, day clothes, and then let's go to the community room. I'll find a book for us to read." Settling in on the edge of his bed, she pulled the overbed tray closer to them both, and set about stirring creamer into his morning coffee and shaking salt onto his scrambled eggs. Deaglan hadn't been able to feed himself for over a year; it was one more indignity his Alzheimer's had visited on them both. Lifting his hands to the edge of the tray – he no longer could coordinate that movement, or many others – she marveled at how tissue-paper thin his skin had become; even the gentle pass-and-back motion of her thumb across his hand caused it to crepe and bunch as though it would tear.

"Not quite what you thought old age was gonna be, huh, Uncle Deaglan?" Brena's voice was down to a whisper, but it wouldn't have mattered. Her comment would have been gone from his mind as quickly as it entered, assigned no more importance than the color of his quilt or the fabric of the curtains in the room. "It's okay. We're gonna do the best we can here – so is Magee, that's why you picked this place – and in the end, it's gonna help people." Brena looked over at the empty bed in the room, then out into the hallway. "It'll be exactly what you wanted, Uncle D. I wish you could remember."

* * *

Woozy might have been a good word to describe the rest of Nick's evening after the match, at least at the outset, but he quickly progressed well past that degree of churning and moved on to a different roller-coaster speed. Stephen hadn't bothered apologizing; instead, he'd giving him a solid ribbing backstage about being both too dumb to take a bump properly and also getting his ass handed to him by a pile of office furniture. That, of course, was followed by an arrogant speech about selling properly and knowing how to give the crowd a show. Nick had half-listened; the squeal in his ears prevented him from clearly hearing much of what was being said. He walked away after a good five minutes of insults, which earned him a full water bottle directly to the back of the head, also courtesy of Stephen.

 _'Three. He planted that giant fucking boot in my face three fucking times. Didn't he? Not. Necessary. And now the back of my head hurts. That was a full bottle of water. He's gotta have good aim on top of everything else, am I right?'_ Nick's palm had started to bruise, and his constant pulling and jostling had given him scratches and cuts across the backs of his fingers. Medical was more concerned with the concussion screening than the finger scraping, and suffering through neuro-check after neuro-check was tedious at best and nausea-inducing at worst, though Nick reasoned he should be used to it after the car accident and the concussions that sidelined him for months. _'This doesn't matter. I can't be out now, and I can bullshit my way through this, anyway. All the right answers, from all the wrong injuries. Just have to make sure I don't lean too far left. Er, right. Left?'_

It took longer than normal for Nick to get through his shower at the arena and then pack his bag – he was concerned he was forgetting things – but he'd managed to coordinate a ride with Claudio before the show began, who was one of his more patient friends. He'd watched the match between Nick and Stephen on the monitors backstage, along with several other members of the cast and crew, and while _they_ were all acutely aware of Nick's trapped hand, there wasn't anything that could be done until the information was communicated from backstage out to a ringside stagehand who could slip in and make an adjustment. Stephen, assuming he was as professional as he proclaimed to be, should have seen the problem and corrected for it, but he kept on with the match as planned.

"You...are sure you are okay?" The slow shower had now turned into slow walking, which gave them time to talk. Banter about crappy catered food and cheap ring gear gave way to a thin silence, and Claudio knew he had to ask. Nick's feet were starting to scuff and drag, and walking seemed like more and more of an effort to coordinate for him.

"I'm good, C. Just tired, and sore as shit. You know what it's like being in the ring with that asshole. His idea of pulling a punch means pulling back further to hit you harder."

"Yes, and that is why I ask. You are...not like yourself. Surly, yes, but also disorganized. Disoriented? Unsettled."

"He _punched_ me, C. What do you think I'm gonna be like?" Slowly, lifting bags and gear into the trunk of the rental, and even more slowly descending into the passenger seat – all of which concerned Claudio, especially given Nick's unpleasant and lengthy history with concussions – Nick groaned and stretched his neck out, trying while not-trying to crack it.

"Nick...Stephen did not _just_ punch you. Do you not remember what happened?" Stephen slid into the driver's seat, closed the door quietly, and waited for his friend's response, not daring to turn the car on. "Truly, my friend. The match. Tell me about your match tonight." _'Can you tell me about your match? Or has something happened?'_

"You're really gonna sit there and tell me Stephen _didn't_ punch me? Dude. Come on. All he _ever_ does in the ring is punch people. And kick people. And then throw them out of the ring. Guess what he does then? He _punches and kicks them._ " Nick finally succeeded in wrenching a pop out of his spine, followed by one in his neck, and Claudio winced. "Can we quit with the third degree and _go_ , now, or do I have to say the alphabet backwards, too? C'mon. Turn the car on and let's go."

"Yes, yes. You cannot fault me for worrying, Nick. As you said, he works stiff." _'You cannot take many more chances with blows to your head. It will end in blows to your career. Or just an end to your career.'_ Claudio shot Nick a sideways glance as they drove, Nick clinging to the seatbelt strap as though it was going to anchor him to the seat. His eyes were crushed closed, and he looked very much like a person working to keep from throwing up. "You also look like you are going to be sick. Did you let the doctor look at yo-"

"Just trying not to fall asleep, man. It's all good. I'd be shitty company if I dozed off, right?" Nick winced and wavered in his seat as Claudio made a sharp right followed by a bump up into the hotel's parking garage and a further series of spiraling turns leading them up into the center of the structure. "Tell me we've got private access? I don't wanna deal with a bunch of screaming people."

"Of course! Of course. Seventh floor. Lucky number, no?"

"Lucky if I can score some sleep, C."

"A change for you, Nick. Not usually what you talk about scoring, eh?" Claudio tried to lighten the mood between the two of them, but watching Nick stagger out of the car and down the hotel hall gave him an odd, warning twinge, nagging at him to keep an eye on his friend. They had separate rooms, though – not much Claudio could do there, other than make sure Nick made it in the proper door.

"You are sure you will be fine?"

"Claudio. Relax. I just need some sleep. I said it's all good. It's just gonna be a rough couple weeks til the pay per view. Stephen's gonna overdo it on everything. That's just how he works. He just got back, he wants to make sure nobody forgot his pasty white ass while he was gone."

"He _works_ like an ass, you mean."

"Glad _you_ said it and not me, C. I'll catch you in the morning."

Nick shut the door gently, not wanting to fire any more noise through his brain than was necessary – he swore he could hear his own heartbeat, even hear people across the hall breathing. Falling across his bed, not bothering to move the sheets back, he shoved himself up toward the pillows as much as seemed reasonable, until the effort started to give him a headache. _'When I'm late tomorrow – and I will be – Claudio will come get me. Whatever. Sleep.'_

* * *

After breakfast, Brena managed her uncle from his bed to a wheelchair with the help of a gait belt and arms that were solidly used to the work. There were CNA's and technicians who were supposed to do the lifting for her, but they rarely had a chance to intervene. Her days and nights were spent at Deaglan's side, only leaving when there was a procedure at which she couldn't accompany him, or he was sleeping off a sedative and she had enough time to sneak home for clean clothing and a shower.

In moving him, she had to put his hands on her shoulders and remind him to hold on – every time they changed rooms, changed activities, even sat further up in a chair, Brena had to make sure she accounted for his every motion and position so he didn't slip or get overwhelmed, not that she was ever sure he understood her. Sometimes she'd dance with him in the day room, holding him up entirely and swaying slowly if a nurse had been kind and left an LP running on the phonograph in the corner. Deaglan always smiled, even if it was a drifting expression, and Brena lived for the small things that showed his personality still lived on. Today was not to be one of those days – at least, not this early in the morning; now, the day room was quiet – so she settled for picking a book off the shelf, organizing pillows and cushions in a window seat, and lifting Deaglan back into the sun-warmed heap, finding a blanket to keep over his lap. _'The sun might be warm, but the windows are frosted solid. April weather, funny thing.'_ Brena curled in next to him and began to read out loud, making a mental note to put a record on the phonograph after lunch.

When she was younger, too young to ever be really sure when, her mother and father lost their house and bounced from one set of relatives to the next, eventually moving in with Hazel and Deaglan in their brownstone. It was across from a florist and above a bakery, and Brena always loved the Russian comfrey and bellflowers in the florist's windows, along with the scent from cinnamon rolls that would float up through the floor. She had fond memories of her aunt and uncle dancing with each other as the phonograph played in their living room, especially at Christmas, and could still picture the snow flying past the parlor windows as 'Fairytale of New York' – even though they lived in Philadelphia – or 'The Carol of the Birds,' or, if it was late enough at night and enough sherry had been passed around after dinner, ' That Night In Bethlehem' sounded through the room. Deaglan was always sure to dip Hazel more than a few times in front of the Christmas tree as they spun and box-stepped through the glow of the tiny lights. It made Brena's parents' arguing in the kitchen a bit more tolerable. She could imagine Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers – a fairy tale in Port Richmond, Philadelphia – even if Deaglan and Hazel didn't look like them at all. Then, it was easier to pretend her mother and father were simply background noise, a television left on too loud in the brownstone next door. And so she wrote, as soon as she could find locking diaries small enough to hide from her parents, and words delicate enough to describe her aunt and uncle, about how wonderful it must be to be so in love.

Now, all Deaglan remembered about that part of his life were Hazel's birds and her name. The books Brena read were all read in hope; she'd sneak sidelong glances at Deaglan while she spoke, hoping to see some sort of recognition on his face, but there was none. She looked for the same flashes when she spooned his ice cream – spumoni – into his mouth for dessert after dinner, or loaded him into her dying SUV and drove him to the battered benches by either the Schuykill or Delaware Rivers, depending on the weather and her mood, to watch the gulls and river-walkers. If he had the patience, could tolerate the frustration of not remembering places or people, or the clinic's tests hadn't aggravated him, they'd go to JFK Plaza or Rittenhouse Square and walk for a few hours, just so she could talk to him about colors and shapes, the scents of flowers, the way sunlight looked as it passed through clouds.

Brena longed to take him out to a meal, though his favorite pub was anything but, anymore. The space was too small, the sounds and scents too overwhelming, and every cheer from the bar caused him to jump and flinch. For a time, he'd missed cail and rugby until Brena had figured out how to stream the games on her laptop. Then, she'd lay in Deaglan's hospital bed, tight against his side the same way he'd done with her when she was a girl and scared of her parents – first, their arguments, then their disappearing without her, and then, the terror that they'd come back and ruin it all – tilting the screen just-so for him, silently cursing the time difference, and hoping against hope that he'd remember a cheer or team color if she prompted him correctly – but knowing deep down he wouldn't. Brena had to learn to see things through his eyes, if his eyes saw anything at all. If they didn't, she reasoned, she had to learn how to make them see again. _'You – and I – agreed to this because you loved cail and rugby so damned much, Uncle D. Please, let this be worth it in the end. Let it be a help to someone, like you wanted.'_

* * *

The next morning hurt worse than Nick wanted it to, especially with Claudio's incessant pounding on the door.

"Nick! Nick, you must open the door now. I have waited as long as I can, but you must wake up!"

At first, he couldn't figure out how to pack, then he realized he didn't need to pack as much as he needed to change his clothes, and then he absolutely _had_ to make the Claudio stop pounding. _'Door is easiest. Open the door.'_ Stumbling toward the door, half falling onto it, he managed to let Claudio into his room, being sure to push him away from the light switches as he entered.

"My God, Nick, you are not well. You must go back to the doctor today. You cannot work like thi-"

"Nah, I'm good. I just slept funny. Why are you so worried?" Nick couldn't remember going out the previous night, so he had no idea why he felt like he had a hangover. There was no smell of stale perfume, no beer bottles or half-empty fifths on the dresser, and his bed was empty save for him. Unless he'd brought back a woman who had left his room without waking him or mooching his phone number, he couldn't think of a single reason why he felt like a complete bucket of shit.

"Your sleep does not look like it was fun, Nick." Claudio deadpanned, but his voice held no small amount of concern. Nick looked absolutely haggard.

"Dude. Just help me make sure I have all my shit. I'm tired. I don't wanna forget anything." Nick continued scanning the room – for what, he wasn't sure – but nothing jumped out at him. Trying not to rouse any suspicion in Claudio, he turned slowly to him and thought of how to ask about the night before without sounding like an idiot. "Guess I already forgot her name, huh? Or I never got it?" Nick tried to nudge Claudio with an elbow in an attempt to be both pridefully manly and conspiratorial, but he knew the smile pasted across his face looked fake and his effort was failing.

"Whose name, Nick? Someone came over after you went to bed?"

"Oh...uh, well...I figured since I've got a headache, I probably tied one...or three...on last night. Right?" Nick dragged his hands through his hair, trying to scrub memories both in and out.

"No, Nick. You said you wanted to go to bed, and as far as I know, you did. I was next door; I did not...how to say this delicately...hear anything that would mean otherwise." Claudio cleared his throat. "You did not leave, at least. And I do not think anyone came in."

"Just forget it, man. It's cool. She probably took off quick." _'He can't be right. I can't feel this shitty without drinking. Or fucking. Or drinking and fucking. I can't have a concussion. Not again.'_

"She does not _exist_ , Nick. You are hurt, my friend. Stephen –"

"Just let it _go_ , okay? I'm fine. Stephen was _definitely_ not involved with anything in my hotel room last night. And I don't wanna hear any shit about being hurt, or my head being fucked up. I already know that's what you're thinking."

Claudio was skeptical, but quieted down and helped Nick pack, waiting patiently while he banged around the bathroom changing his clothing and washing up for the morning.

"Come. We have a plane to catch." Claudio tapped at his watch; he hated being late and rushing through airports.

"Perfect. Sounds like mid-air hell. Any chance we can drive this one?"

"Not unless you want to miss the event today...and tomorrow...and the day after that. You said you needed sleep, you should sleep on the plane. It will be good for you!"

Nick shook his head at the idea, and immediately regretted it. The walls began to whirl again, and his hands didn't know if they should clutch to the sides of his head or dig into the wallpaper as though grabbing the stripes might force the world to hold still around him. _'Claudio, you're not allowed to have a point. This fucking sucks. I can't go through this again.'_ Trying to play it off as nothing, Nick lurched forward and grabbed his bags, hoping to turn vertigo and nausea into momentum and enthusiasm.

"Nick, my friend. _Please_. I do not think this is good for you." Claudio's hand closed on Nick's shoulder, slowly pulling him up to vertical and turning him around. "You cannot, must not, go on like this. It is not safe for you, but this is madness for the people you work with. _Anything_ could happen, to you or to them. Do you want someone to get hurt?"

"C., really. I appreciate the concern. I get you, I get where you're coming from. I know it looks bad, but seriously – I'm just out of it because I'm tired. Must have been one hell of a party last night." Seeing the look on Claudio's face, Nick's resolve cracked slightly, and he rolled his eyes – a move a regretted, since the ceiling seemed to move with them. "But...you're right. Stephen didn't exactly go easy on me. I'll see the doctors again when we get there. Deal?"

"A half-assed deal, as you would say, but one I will accept. Now, we will go." Claudio sounded massively unsure, especially knowing that another match with Stephen was scheduled for Nick that night.

The tilt and shift of takeoff and landing, the pressure changes in the cabin, and the plane's brief bout with turbulence further loosened Nick's tenuous grasp on reality. He tried for sleep, but ended up half-rolled over in his seat, head tucked down onto his shoulder, willing himself not to dry-heave. Nick did keep his word when they landed, going to the doctors at the arena and asking for another once-over before he prepped for his match that night. It helped that Claudio physically dragged him down to medical; otherwise he wouldn't have gone at all, both out of sheer stubborn will and a complete inability to remember where, exactly, they'd been set up for the night. Medical might have been in approximately the same place in every arena, but he had no idea where, exactly, that place was. _'Fuck friends, man. I don't need this shit right now. Talent Relations and Medical don't need to be thinking I can't handle my shit, or that something's going wrong.'_

Medical was much more thorough this time, holding up card after card, using dozens more lights than they'd used the last night, having Nick tilt his head in what felt like hundreds of directions followed by a barrage of questions that seemed designed to make an Oxford scholar take pause. Nick forced himself to focus, forced himself to breathe, to move slowly but not _too_ slowly, and be deliberate in everything he offered as a response to the medical team, knowing that his slot at the pay per view was riding on everything he did or didn't do while he was in the exam room. Again getting the all-clear, though with an interminably long series of warnings and limitations attached to it, Nick shot Claudio a dirty look and headed back toward the locker rooms, wishing he hadn't stood up quite so quickly from the exam table. _'Pyro tonight is going to be oh-so-fun. Meaning: painful.'_ He redoubled his efforts at wishing when he ran into Stephen in the halls on the way to the back. Stephen's idea of a greeting was a slap to the back of Nick's head – the intention was initially playful with only a dab of malice, but the pain was searing and Nick couldn't help his eyes from watering. He hissed and grabbed at the back of his head involuntarily, his vision sparking blue and purple.

"Oh, come on, I didn't even hit ya that fuckin' hard. Be a man. Or are you gonna be cryin' on camera tonight, too?"

"Ease _off_ , Stephen," Nick rubbed at the back of his head, "And I mean that when we're out there, too. You didn't see that I was hung up last time; it's not gonna be a head _-up_ -the-arse match, okay?" _'My eyes shouldn't do that. That's not good.'_

"Ya know, I'm beginning to think you might legitimately dislike me, Nemeth." Stephen smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and left his face looking unnaturally cold. "Should the feeling be mutual? I thought we were gonna have a good working relationship, but if it's gonna just be two guys poundin' the hell out of each other, ya might wanna watch out. You're gonna be on the losin' end of that one."

"Doesn't your hair have an appointment with a can of Aqua-Net, Stephen? Fuck off down to makeup while you're at it, they need to put another layer of Casper The Friendly Ghost on you." Nick thumped his way past Stephen, their shoulders banging together. The impact did nothing to ease his anger, headache, or the ringing in his ears, and for a second he had no idea where the locker rooms were. Instead, he just walked away until he came to catering and found a chair to sit in while he peeled the paper label off a bottle of water. _'I can just wait here til I see someone I can follow to the back. Maybe I'll see Claudio. I don't wanna actually ask anyone where to go. I'll look stupid.'_

Looking stupid was one thing. Nick was more concerned with figuring out how hard he'd been kicked the night before – he really couldn't remember, but Claudio said it had happened, so he had to take his friend at his word – and devising a plan to deal with it between that night's match and the upcoming pay per view. He could always ask for time off after. He just had to make it through _now,_ which included calming down, determining which end was up, and devising a plan to last six – or was it seven – minutes in front of a live audience.

* * *

The match went like shit. It couldn't be helped. The beginning was sloppy, but the majority of that could be blamed on Stephen. Nick was agile enough that even with a compromised sense of balance and feet that didn't want to listen to the rest of him, he could coast well enough through their opening maneuvers. The more Nick was able to block and dodge, the more frustrated and irate Stephen became, and the edgier Nick got in response – he could see the irritation building on Stephen's face. _'And that means something's about to go wrong. He gets mad, he overreacts, he fucks up.'_ Nick tried locking him up in a corner, gritting out an angry 'Slow! Down!' as a command and not a suggestion, but it went ignored.

As soon as Stephen forced Nick back out of the corner and charged at him in the middle of the ring, he knew something was off. He saw Stephen's leg come up, and Nick knew he'd taken one step too far, was eight inches in too close, and took the bulk of the kick under his jaw, snapping his head back. _'Since when can't I judge distance? I know how tall that asshole is, I could have checked back. Maybe he came in too far and-'_ and then row after row of stage lighting flew over and past his eyes as he fell backward. Nick felt the back of his head slam into the mat and bounce off twice before his vision went white – in part from the pasty tonnage covering him for the pin, and in part from the stimulus overload flooding his brain, the last thing that ran through it being a trainer – Nick couldn't remember his name, a fact that terrified him before he momentarily blanked out – telling him, 'Tuck your chin! Nemeth, you're gonna end your career doing shit like that!' Claudio, again watching backstage, winced, and moved to meet Nick as he shuffled behind the curtain, his feet again refusing to cooperate fully with him.

"You already know what I am going to say, my friend."

Nick pushed Claudio back, doubled over, and leaned against the wall before throwing up, managing to hit only his own boots with the spatter, instead of covering both his and Claudio's. Unfazed, Claudio simply motioned to a stagehand for a towel and passed it to Nick, waiting patiently for him to stop heaving and compose himself.

"I don't wanna," he hacked out, "Hear a lecture right now." Nick finished, toweling off his boots before trying to clean off his face.

"And you will not, as long as you go back to medical." Claudio smiled. "And as long as you stop being such a woman. You clean your boots before you clean your face? Good God, man."

"I've got some shit to film. Then I'll go. Just leave me alone." Nick stumbled off, shoving Claudio again, trying futilely to remember his way back to the locker rooms for the second time that night, knowing he needed to look at a script. He couldn't recall exactly where he'd left his script, or if he'd even brought his copy with him, only that he had to find it and meet Renee...somewhere...to say something. And that he should probably brush his teeth before he went.

Claudio puzzled over the second shove from Nick. It was needless aggression; the two men had always teased each other about their gear and boots, so the first push made sense. Beyond that, Nick was well used to his friend's constant concern over his ability to attract head injuries like a magnet, so a second shove was pointless. "Something is not right with you, my friend. Medical is not an option, tonight. Either you _will_ find them, or they _will_ find you." Claudio walked down to the small exam room himself and explained what was going on, not wanting to ruin Nick's chances at a slot in the upcoming pay per view, but also not wanting to see his friend spend months – or longer – sidelined by a high-grade concussion he refused to take care of, or worse, didn't realize he had.

* * *

Nick faked his way through another concussion screening that night, though barely – Renee went to medical herself, saying Nick had been erratic during their shoot, botching lines and being a generally irritable jackass as opposed to the generally goofy jackass he usually was. Even she felt something was 'off' with him, and was concerned about his well-being. Once they and the doctor cornered Nick, he'd blown up at all of them as much as he could without giving away that his friends were right in their assessment, saying he was fine and they were overreacting, and then proceeded to do everything in his power to prove his point. All of the lights and tilts that he was put through were torturous, but he forced himself to swallow down his ever-rising stomach and focus on the pay per view.

He also focused on making sure Renee and Claudio didn't see him throw up after the neuro-checks, and was quick to run to the locker room ahead of Claudio after the doctors were done. Dealing with bulemic female talent over the years had given him a decent idea of how to cover for the sound, and he made sure to flush before retching.

Of course, Claudio wasn't buying it, and the ride to the hotel was stonily silent at its outset. Nick knew he couldn't chance driving himself because of how dizzy he was, and so considered finding a different ride for the next day. He dropped the notion as fast as it came to him; it would only make his friend more suspicious that something was wrong. Sighing, he resigned himself to being chauffeured by an irritable Swissman, whether or not he liked it.

"You know," Claudio cut into Nick's thoughts, "You have a match tomorrow night, as well. And the night after that. And after that."

"Oh? And?" Claudio's tone was so flat that Nick had no idea where the conversation was headed, or if it even was one.

"And I am not going to be a happy European if my fake Californian friend fucks up."

"I'm from Florida."

" _And_ he misses the joke about Hollywood. See? Something is wrong with you. Go to bed. I am not amused with you and your antics."

 _'And I'm not amused with life, right now. Someone please check me out of life, party of one.'_ Nick struggled up to his room, the swirling turns in the parking garage along with the springy, high-speed ride on the elevator conspiring to wreak further havoc with his sense of equilibrium. Much like the night before, he simply fell across the bed and into a nauseated sleep, this time not even bothering to climb toward the pillows or kick his shoes off.

"Do you see yourself?"

Nick turned his head as much as he could, not realizing Claudio had followed him into his room. "Huh? Why the fuck are you in here? I'm good, man, I'm just tired."

"You are a disaster. You are angry with people. You could not remember being kicked in the head last night. You were kicked in the head again _this_ night. You shoved me for no reason in the hallway, you were curt with Renee, you-"

"Wait. I did _what_? And who kicked me yesterday? I got hung up in some chairs, it was just my hand."

"Good God, Nick! You do not remember? You truly do not remember?" Claudio looked horrified. "Nick, no. No more of this. You must take time off. If you take time to be well now, then you may be able to keep your slot in the pay per view. You cannot even remember things from this evening!"

"Claudio, I'm trying to take time to go the fuck to sleep. Get out of my room." Nick turned his head back to its original position, tried dragging one shoe from a foot, then gave up entirely. Turning his head that far made him lose track of where he'd left his feet.

Throwing his hands in the air and slamming the door on the way out, Claudio stalked back to his room – a short stomp, indeed, as he was next door to Nick. A few minutes later, and he was treated to the sound of Nick retching in the bathroom, followed by what sounded like him falling in the shower. Claudio threw his own shoes at his door in frustration, sat on the edge of his bed, and thought for several minutes – a complete lack of ideas coming to him. Giving up, he decided he'd be better served by thinking with a beer in hand, and opted to kill time in the hotel bar, rather than sit in his room and listen to Nick self-destruct next door.

* * *

Hours later, having returned to his room, Claudio paced irritably before setting the alarm on his phone, finally deciding that he'd leave Nick to his own devices in the morning even though it was unlikely he'd make it to his media appointment on time without help and reminders. He even mulled asking for a match with Nick the coming night; management was more open to performer requests at house shows and Claudio thought he might be able to demonstrate the depth and breadth of Nick's problem if he had him in the ring. He was snowing medical, that much was for sure. There were bad matches, and then there were matches so awful that even Talent Relations had to take notice. "I hate to prove a point in this way, my friend," he announced to the room, "But you leave me little choice. You are a fool, and now you will be a fool with the attention of the people running the show." Claudio settled into bed, but sleep was slow in coming.

* * *

Running – literally – toward the broadcast building, Nick couldn't remember how much money he'd passed to the cab driver as he left the vehicle, even though it was only seconds earlier. _'Probably too much, but fuck it. I'm late. I'm so late. I'm never late. Claudio didn't get me! Claudio didn't get me? The PR Department is gonna kill me. Have I ever missed an interview? I don't know how to fix this. Can the station record me for later?'_ As it happened, the station's answer was no, Nick couldn't be recorded for later. The radio station's programming director started tearing into him about punctuality and professionalism – there wasn't often anyone close to a 'big star' available for media in that particular town, so to miss the interview was a major blow to the station. Nick, lost in the moment, already angry with himself for missing the appointment, tore right back at the programming director. In a fog, almost as though he was watching himself from outside, he could hear himself screaming at the man, towering over him, stabbing a finger toward his face, something about not knowing how to pre-tape, save for later air-time, wasting _his_ time, and then he was back out the door, not having the slightest clue where he was at or where he needed to go.

 _'Out. Out out out I just need to go OUT why was I yelling? I already fucked up by missing the interview; now that guy is gonna call Media and my ass is so very much grass that it's astroturf.'_ Unable to sort out why his moods were swinging so wildly back and forth, Nick collapsed onto the edge of a concrete planter across the plaza from the broadcast building, cradling his head in his hands. _'This can't happen again. It can't. I lost so much time – I lost whole things, places, people – it's not going to happen again. I just need to make it through the pay per view. Then I can ask for some time off. Or an easier storyline. Anything. I just have to slow it down.'_ Breathing deeply, positive he could feel his pulse against his palms as he pressed them tighter and into the sides of his head, Nick checked his watch and decided, once again, he needed to get a cab.

* * *

 _'Keep telling yourself he's one of the safest guys you've ever worked with. Keep telling yourself that. Tonight won't hurt as much.'_ Nick tried to reorganize himself on the bench in the locker room so that he could pull his legs up to his hands, rather than having to bend down to lace his boots. Leaning made the entire world lean precariously on its axis, and he didn't want to be nauseous before he went out to the ring. This night, at least, he was being spared a match with Stephen. Instead, The Powers The Be had decided to have him face Claudio – a match that left Nick wondering if Claudio hadn't made the request himself. The venue was crowded; Nick hadn't ever left the small town where he'd started the day, and the sting of botching the radio interview had lingered well after he'd arrived at the arena – the dressing down he'd received from Media Relations was loud and direct, beginning nearly immediately after he'd walked through the doors. He found himself having to force his eyes to focus, to force his ears to stop squealing and hissing so he could listen to what was being said, in case there was a fine or suspension attached to his mistake. Luckily, it seemed the worst thing to come from his error was the stern talking-to he received, and he found himself asking more than once if that was all.

Stretching, trying to jog in place a bit – and then quickly deciding against it, as it made his stomach lurch in ways that were horrifying and unpredictable – Nick prepared to go out to the ring. He was up second – or was it third – with Claudio, so he had to be ready. The town was certainly ready for him – a small building and a rowdy crowd spelled disaster for his thumping headache.

Despite what he'd told himself, Nick wasn't anywhere near ready. The match was beyond sloppy; Nick knew Claudio had moved past 'carrying him' and was firmly into the realm of 'What the hell are you doing?' The sad, funny, sick thing was, he _was_ actually trying. They'd talked about moves and sets before the match and had several things planned, but Nick couldn't bring them to mind. The things they tried to coordinate on the fly ended up being transitioned into rest holds while Claudio whispered, again and again, what was supposed to happen next. Nick couldn't judge distance, couldn't bring his hands up fast enough, and was missing offense as well as defense. The only thing he _was_ doing well was selling his frustration. Claudio, however, was having a hard time bottling up his fear. Nick was supposed to go over the top rope, feign a hard landing, and follow it up by being thrown into the steps. Normally, it wouldn't be any cause for concern, but Claudio had watched his friend stumble, stagger, and generally slop his way through their match. He wanted to cancel the maneuver entirely, but knew Nick wouldn't go for the change in plans – or wouldn't remember that they'd changed the plan at all, and would be likely as not to simply throw himself over the top rope, with or without an assist.

Claudio tried to put no more force than was necessary into 'throwing' Nick towards the steps once he'd gone over the top. He didn't want to hurt him, and had no idea if he could tolerate the maneuver. Besides, Nick had done a good enough job of hurting himself during the match; every bump looked brutal. Fate, however, had a strange way of intervening, and the intervention came in the form of a poorly-tied right bootlace. Both men had watched as it finally came undone as Nick hurtled toward the steps, his left foot coming down on top of it, catching his legs up short and causing him to slam the top of his head directly onto the edge of the steps, again blacking him out momentarily and opening a long, thin gash across his scalp, dying his blonde hair deeply red. Chaos ensued; Claudio refused to go for anything that even vaguely resembled a pin and instead charged at his friend's prone figure, trying to shake his shoulders and rouse him. Paramedics and black-shirted technicians rushed the area, towels and medical kits in hand, a stretcher not far behind, and distantly, a bell rang, signaling the end of the match that realistically never should have happened in the first place. The fans, initially rowdy, sank into a stunned and edgy silence as Nick was strapped to a backboard and lifted onto a stretcher, not knowing what to do in the wake of something that had gone from campy, somewhat fake fun to real, life-altering terror, with Claudio running alongside the stretcher the entire way to the back.


	2. Slow Your Roll

As soon as he was backstage, Nick wrestled his hands loose from the straps they'd been pinned under, demanded everyone stop rolling him to God knew where, and asked for staff medical services, thank-you-that-was-all. Claudio threw his own hands in the air, then grabbed Nick by the shoulders, having to stop himself from physically shaking his friend – besides, the motion would likely have flicked blood everywhere from Nick's still-gushing head laceration.

"You are _mad_ , do you hear me? You _must_ go to a hospital! You hit your head, again! You know what happens when you hit your head too many times, Nick. And the things that happen are not good. It looked like you blacked out. Did you?"

"And _you_ are trying to get me sent to a fucking emergency room when all I need is to get stitched up. It's like you're _trying_ to fuck up the pay per view for me." He ignored Claudio's question in favor of continuing his rant, his voice cold. "And guess what, it's _wrestling_. We all hit our heads. You wanna explain to me how to take a bump with _zero_ impact? Jesus, man, take it easy. And can someone let me up off this thing?" Keeping his anger in check was a struggle; Nick wanted desperately to grab Claudio and throw him into a wall, but the impulse didn't make sense to him. "By the way, C, in case you didn't know, the reason I hit my head is because _you_ decided to plant it on top of a set of stairs. In case we're keeping score, y'know." He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but if his friend was going to be overbearing about medical issues, then Nick was going to respond in kind. _'Stop it, Nemeth. Stop yelling at him, he's trying to help you. Don't be a dick. It's Claudio. Claudio! You need to chill the fuck out on him.'_ Now irritated at himself as well as the situation, he jostled the stretcher, hoping to make his point clear – he wanted off, and he wanted off now. Claudio shoved Nick back against the stretcher, much harder than he meant, and stalked off toward the locker room.

The company medics didn't like Nick's request, but they also couldn't overrule it. Nick was angry, but wasn't slurring, had no illogical trains of thought, no overly poor coordination – just Nick being Nick, stubborn as shit – and so they complied, but warned him that if there were any more impacts that looked suspect, he'd be pulled off the card for Extreme Rules. Nick nodded, slowly, trying to look serious, when really all he was trying to do was slow the world down a bit, force his eyes to compress the multiple images swimming in front of him into one complete picture, and shake the screeching from his ears. He pressed the towel harder and harder into the top of his head, following them to an exam room – somehow, the pressure was comforting even if the floor was floating.

Claudio was tempted not to wait for Nick, to leave him to find his own ride back to the hotel and be rude and condescending to someone else for the night. His conscience wouldn't let him, however, and so he gathered Nick's things along with his own, and leaned heavily against the wall outside the exam room, waiting for his friend to materialize with stitches and ice packs. "And _now_ I wait for you, instead of sleeping. You make me work the whole match, now you – how do you say – work my nerves. Damned Americans." Claudio groused quietly to himself, furrowed his eyebrows, and decided to kick his heel into the door in a signal for the doctor to hurry it up.

* * *

"Whatcha say, Uncle D? Trip through the square today, for taffy? Then again, it looks like it might rain. If it doesn't, we could go to the cemetery after the confectioner, if you'd like. See Hazel."

No answer came, and Brena wasn't really expecting one – her uncle looked exhausted, whatever his reason. She was tired herself, and was considering hopping up into the unoccupied bed across the room for a nap if Deaglan dozed off. The staff at Magee gave her and Deaglan virtually free run of the facility; without him, there was no study. She never took advantage of their good graces. If the bed was needed, Brena would be up and out of it in a second, and changing the sheets herself besides. It was rare for him not to have a roommate, though, and if she could sneak a nap, she reasoned, then what was the harm in it?

Magee, the crown jewel of brain injury treatment facilities, had catered to every whim she and Deaglan had, not that there had been many. Hazel's heart failure claimed her many years prior, with Deaglan's memory loss coming to light through her passing. It was in that failing light of his lucidity that he decided – with Brena's blessing – to make her his proxy and give himself over to Magee as the foundation of their research into Tau proteins. From there, the Alzheimer's rapidly tore his mind to ribbons, but it was to be expected and in a strange way, welcomed. The further he disintegrated, the more useful he became to the study. Even given that, Brena had asked only that he be limited to one roommate at a time to cut down on noise, visitors, and confusion, and that she be allowed to come, go, and stay as she pleased. The executive board was only too happy to grant her wishes – and ask if there wasn't more they could do.

One at a time, as requested, Deaglan had been given roommates throughout the duration of his stay, and Brena had become fast friends with each of them, as well as their families, though none of them had been a resident for long. They'd all been in for TBI recovery – usually intensive treatment for a sports-related injury, stroke, or car accident before transferring back home or to a residential facility. Once, a lovely older lady who'd had a stroke had been in Deaglan's room and was terribly fond of both him and Brena by the time she left. Brena read to her, helped her dial her phone, and kept her long, snowy hair braided and up in a bun until she'd rehabbed her affected hand and arm enough to muddle her way through her hair on her own. That lady still kept in contact with them both, though Deaglan couldn't retain any idea of who she was, even when she and her family stopped by with meals and magazines. Brena suspected their return visits were more for her than they were for her uncle, but she appreciated their gesture all the same. They were friendly, and Brena could use all the social interaction she could get.

Most of Brena's friends faded when she upended her life and left her job to care for Deaglan after Hazel died, not that she hadn't already upended her life to help Deaglan care for Hazel once it was clear he was floundering on his own. The ones who did stick around made time for her here and there, but it was difficult for them to wrap their heads around his disease, and she understood their fear. _'They're looking at me, and waiting to see him in me. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and wait for the same thing. Sometimes, I wonder what's going to happen if it does come for me and nobody's here.'_ The fear that Deaglan's disease was waiting, primed to crush across her mind like the wave of a tsunami and sweep it clear of its contents, alternately terrified her in ways she didn't have words for, yet also brought her some measure of peace. When her time ran out, she'd be signed over to the same program Deaglan was, in his honor. She would have asked that it be done in his memory, but the irony seemed sick and wrong.

Ultimately, Brena opted for a quick run out for taffy and other candies. She brought along Deaglan and a wheelchair, and made sure to take requests from the staff for whatever sweets they wanted. They'd all been so good to her and her uncle that whenever an opportunity struck to repay them, she couldn't help herself. She also didn't want to think about the people who cared for him, cooked his meals, and counted his pills also being the people who would, at his death, be sheeting his brain between glass slides, as contractually agreed upon. They'd shift from friends to employees in that moment, and Brena wasn't sure she could ever trust herself to be prepared.

* * *

Finally, Nick made it. He'd suffered through match after match with Stephen, lecture after lecture from Claudio and the medical team, forced himself to read, then re-read script after script just to be able to handle Renee and her questions and cameras, begged Media Relations to lighten his load, saying he needed to focus on his training in order to be able to compete with Stephen and really sell the match, and now, tonight, it would all be over.

Slapping on the best Dolph-face he could muster, he gritted his teeth through both his pyro and blaring music, and hip-swiveled and hand-gestured his way down the ramp. All crowds were loud, he reasoned, but this one seemed raucous beyond measure. Jumping up on the apron, his fast, one-knee pivot left him grasping desperately for the middle rope to keep his balance, and he barely managed to snatch onto it. Momentarily, the arena went dark while Stephen's music cued up, and Nick was grateful for the three seconds of respite he had from the overwhelming lights and sounds. Deciding the safest course of action was simply to get move sets going and lock up with Stephen, he waited for the bell...and then...he drew a blank. Nick momentarily chewed his bottom lip, trying to make the maneuver look cocky and not concerned, hoping that the moves for the rest of the match came back to him by the time he and Stephen made it that far.

Nick wasn't given much of a chance to think that far ahead, to try to plan out logical courses of action, or force himself to remember which way things were supposed to go. He hit the steps again early in the bout, and his vision blacked out momentarily, along with the rest of his mind. Something barked at him to try to get back into the ring, that somehow things would make more sense from there – maybe the referee could step in – so he aimed for the apron and managed his way under the ropes. Stephen followed, and then Stephen's knee followed, directly to the side of Nick's head. He tried gestures, whispers, anything, to get anyone's attention, to slow it all down, but nobody understood or cared. In that moment, a chill went down his spine, that possibly he'd rejected help one too many times and now nobody would come to his aid. _'But now I want off, guys. I want off the merry-go-round. Carnival ticket punched too many times. Claudio, man, you were right. Now how do I get out of the funhouse?'_

Suddenly, it didn't matter, his back was screaming at him – he'd spent so long thinking about his inability to think that Stephen had tied him up in a cloverleaf that Nick was barely able to break out of. The move might have been planned, but Stephen had sat into it far too hard, and Nick had to scramble – he needed a way out and he needed it now. No help was coming; the referee was oblivious and Stephen was enjoying himself far too much. The two men traded blows, and Nick found himself hitting the mat far too hard, far too often, the idea of guarding his head and neck completely forgotten as the match ground on. His rage was building, and briefly, he recalled how he felt standing outside himself, screaming into the station manager's face, then shoving Claudio, then arguing against going to the hospital, and finally seeing the disappointment and concern written across everyone's faces as he bled on a stretcher. Something inside his battered mind tightened and then shot loose like a cork from a champagne bottle, and a few moves later, he found himself rolling Stephen up for the pin and finally, the win.

* * *

That win ended up being the mistake Nick needed to make, though his crotch argued him on that point seconds later, the gimmick of the match nearly forgotten. Following that, Stephen's boot connected with Nick's head one final time, and that was all it took. Shapes no longer held still; colors became smears and sounds were only echoes around him. He forced himself to work back to standing and begin to walk robotically to the back. He was angry with himself for being unable to acknowledge the crowd as he went, and then angry at the crowd for expecting him to care. Once behind the curtain, he looked blankly at Claudio, who could only shake his head and guide his friend back to medical, already knowing the answers to the questions Nick was about to ask. He pushed Nick into the medic's room, following behind, and stood nearby while the doctors swarmed. Nobody bothered to move him back out, so he waited quietly.

"Is it bad?" Nick fought to keep from being pushed back on the exam table; the sweeping change in position made both his temper and his stomach flare. He ended up leaning back on his elbows and gulping for air like a fish stranded dry-side.

"Nemeth, you've got to be kidding me. You've got to be _fucking_ kidding me. You're getting shuttled to Chicago, unless I can find a closer city with an airport, and then you're getting flown to Magee." The lead doctor was see-sawing between incredulous and furious, all while on the phone trying to get Talent Relations to organize plane tickets. "And sit the fuck down. We _all_ knew you were stretching it with the concussion screenings, but this...this is _beyond_ -"

"What has he done?" Claudio took it as his cue to enter the conversation; he slunk closer to the table and cut into the sentence, but got no answer – the medic had finally got a response from TR and was busy on the phone.

"I fucked up, C." Nick wrapped his hands around his head, again, but his face was pained as he leaned his elbows down into his legs. Curling over himself wasn't any better than leaning back, and he didn't know how to handle the positional misery he found himself in. "The first time you called me out on it, you were right. My balance is shot, I get angry all the time, I forget things, I- in that one match, I think I blanked out. I _know_ I blanked out. It was with Stephen. I don't remember which one, but all the lights went by and then there was just _nothing_ for a second. Tonight, too." Nick's voice was shockingly quiet. To Claudio, it didn't seem his friend was in pain from his injury as much as his friend was in pain from admitting he was fallible after all.

Slamming the phone down and earning a grunt from Nick for his effort in creating the sharp sound, the doctor leaned down to talk directly and quietly into his ear, making sure his every word was understood."Okay, Nemeth. Ambo is waiting. And no, you're not walking. You can get on the stretcher or in the whee- no, fuck that. I'm getting the stretcher. I'm not losing my job over you sliding out of the chair. I'll be back in a few." Standing up and shifting his eyes over to Claudio, though Nick had no way of knowing it, he continued. " _You_ stay _here_ , and I mean that." He scampered from the room in search of the proper equipment, leaving Claudio staring sympathetically at his friend.

Nick looked up after he heard the door shut, his eyes nearly glassy. "I need to get cleaned up. Something. I can't go like this." Nick gestured at his attire, and Claudio threw him a stack of towels, shaking his head. "C, seriously. I'm not...I can't..." He slammed his elbow back into the table, struggling for words, and then immediately grabbed his elbow, wincing. "I don't know what I mean. I can't wear this wherever they're sending me."

Claudio groaned, but ran down to the locker room and grabbed Nick's bag and more towels, returning to medical in time to see Nick leaning over the sink throwing up. Sighing, he dropped the bag heavily on the floor and kicked it over to Nick at the sink.

"You, my friend, are a complete fool. Where did they say they are sending you? I think they said you had to fly, and I know how much you love a plane ride." He ran into Stephen in the hallway on the way back to medical, and while Stephen did ask why he had so many bags and where the fire was – an expression Claudio wasn't entirely sure he understood – he hadn't asked where Nick was, or if he was okay. Claudio merely cursed at him in German as he brushed past in the hall, not having the time or patience to deal with American colloquialisms or Irish arrogance. He didn't want Nick to be caught alone in the exam room.

"I...I don't know." Nick ran the faucet, trying to clean himself up, clean the sink, the counter, anything that seemed normal when he felt anything but. "I have to get on a plane? The doctor told me the name of the place, but I – I don't – "

"It will be fine, Nick. It will be taken care of. Here, dress. Clean up. The doctor did say the name, but I do not remember it, either." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "I was more worried about my boots." Nick didn't move, and Claudio realized his mistake in kicking the bag toward him. He decided to bend and rummage through it himself, holding up a simple pair of sweats and a t-shirt – all uncomplicated and easy to put on. He turned his back and waited, hoping Nick would take the hint to get dressed, and refusing to leave the room in case anything happened. It took a few minutes, and Nick needed help with his socks and shoes, but he managed to be clothed properly before the doctor returned.

"I shoulda listened to you, C. The first time Stephen clocked me, I shoulda listened to you and just taken a couple days. It wouldn't have mattered. Now I know I'm fucked up. It's bad. Everything's _wrong_ now. I – I can't even explain it."

"I know, Nick. We have all had concussions, you just seem to have a magnetic ability to attract them." Claudio's smile faded, and he rested his hand on Nick's shoulder, trying to be reassuring. "Wherever they are sending you, they will take your history into account." Adopting a serious tone, Claudio tried to catch Nick's eyes, which seemed to be swimming everywhere and nowhere at once. "You just have to be willing to work at it, my friend. You will be cared for."

Claudio found himself jogging alongside Nick's prone figure as he was rushed out the back and then transferred from one stretcher to another, promising to get the name of the facility, to call and then visit, to see him as soon as he could, Nick looking more and more miserable by the second. Claudio argued, briefly, with the driver about being given the name of the receiving facility before they left, but gave up, knowing he was only delaying Nick's departure. Instead, he stood at the edge of the service bay, watching the ambulance pull away and speed through the parking lot.

"He's got a history of heady injury that's a mile long, C. He's going to Magee Rehab, out in Philly. I don't wanna fuck around with this one." The doctor waved Claudio back into the building and out of the chilly April air. "It's one of the best, and God knows Nick needs it. They're doing research into Tau, that's why I pushed for him to go. After that last mess-"

"Yes. Yes, I know. There were two in a row, and after that he has always...never...I mean..." Claudio stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words, and then stopped. "He was the same, but he was not, does that make sense?" Nick, being stubborn. Nick, being Nick. Nick, off to Magee Rehab.

* * *

Nick was rushed to the airport, where he'd been treated as though he was no more than a piece of luggage. Talent Relations had managed him a 'seat' on a very small, mostly empty red-eye, though that translated into his not being allowed off the stretcher to actually _be_ seated no matter how often or loudly he protested to the paramedic who accompanied him. Instead, he was left on the stretcher at the far-back of the plane, away from the rest of the passengers, but not so far back that his complaining and sarcastic profanity couldn't be heard throughout the interior. Unimpressed, the paramedic made sure Nick's hands stayed strapped to the gurney, and then threatened more than a few times to simply give him a xanax and be done with it, but Nick knew the reality – concussion patients couldn't be sedated, so he was free to be as big a pain in the ass as he wanted to be, and the flight was long.

Another ambulance met them on the tarmac, and Nick was quickly and roughly unloaded into brutally cold April weather, on a wet, empty, stretch of concrete, with planes screaming overhead and wind howling in his face. The paramedic who he'd annoyed for nearly four hours scrawled a few signatures on a clipboard, hurled it into the back of the waiting ambulance along with Nick's singular bag of luggage – Claudio had been kind enough to make sure that at least _some_ clothing made it on the trip – and ran back up the ramp into the plane, but not before flipping Nick a middle finger. Hands strapped down again, there was nothing Nick could do but glare and call after the man to go fuck himself. His headache prevented much more coherent thought from forming, anyway. Seeing the dramatics, the next set of ambulance drivers also refused to let Nick have use of his hands when he'd asked, prompting him into a new flurry of profanity. He was tired, hungry, cold, his head hurt, and still couldn't remember where he was being sent, or if Claudio said he'd call in the morning. _'When is morning? I don't even know where the fuck I am. At least I made it through the pay per view. That's all I wanted. I can bullshit my way out of this in the morning. If I faked it past all the company doctors, then this will be cake. I can rehab at home. I just need some time off, that's all.'_ The ambulance lurched into motion, and took Nick's stomach with it.

* * *

Not enjoying her midnight shift overtime, double-RN-pay or not, Meredith met them at the door, directing the paramedics to wheel Nick down to Deaglan's room. All she knew was "Athlete, history of concussion, performing with level 3A when received repeated blows to the head. A/Ox1:Person. Uncooperative." Brena hadn't ever minded roommates before, she and Meredith were exceptionally friendly, and there were no other beds in the facility, so it would have to do for now. If it was a bad match, she'd juggle living arrangements in the morning, when there was more staff available to help box and bag personal items and sanitize rooms. For now, whatever was coming in was a midnight admission with limited help, and that was that. Meredith was also somewhat abusing her friend's good nature, and she knew it. She was banking on the knowledge that Brena could calm a rabid dog and had more patience than a saint, and thus wasn't likely to mind whatever histrionics the admission was going to throw at her throughout the night. Deaglan – well, Deaglan was asleep in the MRI lab. If Meredith ended up owing her friend an apology in the morning for foisting the world's worst admission onto her, then she'd make sure it came in the form of a steaming cup of tea or coffee and a hot scone, extra butter. Brena was an easy sell at times, and it drew a chuckle up out of the bedraggled and exhausted nurse.

* * *

Uncooperative was an understatement, both in terms of Nick and the paramedics. For their part, the paramedics were wheeling Nick down the hall at lightning speed, barely giving Meredith an organized verbal history or time to sign the necessary forms before they'd transferred him – dumped him, really – over into the facility's bed, unceremoniously leaving him tangled in their sheets and scampering from the room, grumbling about bitchy transports and being glad to be rid of him. Shrugging, she turned to Nick, who was trying to rub some semblance of feeling back into his wrists and unwrap his legs from the ravel of linens that were laced around them – and failing on both fronts.

"Welcome to Magee Rehab. I'm Meredith, though you'll see me more often on the morning shift. You've got about...four hours til breakfast, and you've got a roommate. His name is Deag-"

"I don't care. Once I see my doctor, I'll be out of here. I don't need this shit. I'm fine."

Arching an eyebrow, Meredith moved to his closet, opened it and rummaged around, and then threw a blanket at him, landing it squarely across his face. "Make yourself temporarily at home, then. The roommate you don't care about won't be back tonight; he's in our MRI lab. His daughter, however, might drop by and take a nap. She's here round the clock with him. Try not to be too much of an asshole to her if she comes in. I'm _sure_ you'll be a gentleman, though, since you don't need this shit and you're fine. Your call button is next to your bed, your bathroom is across from your bed, your slippers are under your bed, and your ass better stay _in_ your bed. Goodnight."

Agog, Nick watched her turn on her heel and walk from the room, not bothering to close his curtain or shut the door as she left, and his head was spinning enough that he certainly wasn't going to chance getting up to improve either circumstance himself. He eyed the call button warily; clearly he hadn't made a good first impression. _'Again, Nemeth. Way to jump on someone you don't even know. You might not need to be here, but she's just doing her job. Get your shit in check.'_ He tried straightening out the sheets and blanket, but the tangle of fabric didn't make sense to his eyes or hands. Straightening out one layer only led to the next being a mess, and he resigned himself to having either cold feet or cold arms, neither of which was appealing. A television was mounted across from the bed, on the wall, but the idea of that much noise terrified him, and he hadn't been told how to use it, or where the remote was at. There weren't any books near his bed, though he saw several in a neat stack by his roommate's bed – they were thick, and he guessed they were things his roommate – the nurse had said _his_ daughter – kept around in order to 'look better.' Nobody really read those things, he reasoned. Not anymore, and certainly not anyone with a reason to be here. The idea of a book that long made his head pound. Brain injuries and long books didn't go together.

Clearly, his roommate had been at Magee for a while. Books, photographs, blankets that didn't look like they belonged to the hospital, a neat row of DVDs, a laptop, and even a four-cup coffeepot were all arranged on the bedside stand and on top of the chest of drawers. He imagined the man needed quite a bit of care, to have his daughter with him around the clock, and needed quite a bit of distraction, to have so many personal effects in the room. _'He's either going to be loud, gross, out of control, or all three. It's a hospital for brain injuries, so he's gonna be a mess, period. I need to get the fuck out of here.'_ Flopping back onto his thin pillow and wincing from the impact, Nick mulled over the idea of pushing the call button and asking for something to eat, but doubted the nurse would bother with him unless she heard him fall from his bed and hit the floor. _'Food here probably sucks, anyway. And I feel sick. Fuck it. I'm leaving in the morning.'_


	3. Foighne

The hall had been quiet for far too long. The dull thump and clang of the MRI machine had stopped long ago, and Brena had come close to dozing off several times, no matter how hard she tried to fight it. The magazine she'd found was full of clothing she'd never have the money to own, and while it was amusing to fantasize about what she might look like in True Religion jeans or carrying a Coach handbag, it wasn't enough to keep her awake. She'd pondered what the doctor would tell her when he came out of the lab, but his report was taking such a long time to coordinate that she gave up on keeping her eyes open, eventually tilting herself up against the wall and tucking her feet underneath her in the chair, deciding that five minutes of sleep might not be a bad thing, even if it wasn't to be a full five minutes. It took mere seconds after she organized herself before she was in a sound sleep, her shoulders bunched awkwardly together.

Suddenly, the door to the MRI lab slid open. Brena's head popped up and she pawed the sleep from her eyes. She'd long since developed the ability to go from dead asleep to brightly awake thanks to Deaglan's constant off-hours treatments and tests. This MRI was no different; his were so involved and lengthy that Magee had taken to scheduling him late at night so it didn't interfere with the treatments other patients needed. Stretching, Brena forced herself to come back to reality. She had to be functional and able to make critical decisions at a moment's notice. She couldn't afford being tired; sleep could come when Deaglan no longer needed her. Brena wanted to delay _that_ moment as long as she possibly could.

"No news is good news, right?" Brena stuffed down a yawn, but her voice still came out thick.

"Well, it's not quite _no_ news, Miss O'Keefe. The standard 3T MRI imaging can't see the proteins – well, specific amyloids – that we're looking for, but the newer, 7T technology can, and that's what he was under. The build-up is increasing in the temporal lobe. It's honestly surprising that he's been as verbal and mobile as he has been, but those things are all good signs, as well. The increased protein build-up that's on the MRI imagery is confirmed in the spinal fluid samples as well."

"I'll take it, Dr. Morgan. It's kind of no news, since we know the dementia, the Alzheimer's...it's there, and we know it's bad and going to progress. And I'm glad you're getting the data you need. I wish it didn't come with the associated spinal tap, but-"

"I know, Miss O'Keefe. We're keeping him as comfortable as possible. He's still sedated, we're working to rehydrate him, and we've placed a blood patch over the entry site. Every precaution is being taken."

Brena smiled weakly, and reached for the doctor's hand, patting it between hers. "Look...Dr. Morgan," She sighed, and tried to look anywhere but at the man's face before continuing, "We trust you. We wouldn't be here if we didn't. I know you're taking good care of him. And for heaven's sake, call me Brena. You've...your team... you've all been working with my uncle for over a year. We know each other pretty well by now. The only reason I don't like the spinal tap is because _I'm_ needle-queasy. Deaglan doesn't feel it, I know." She cleared her throat, released the doctor's hand, and continued, finally looking up. "You're all professionals. You've got things under control. Your Tau hypothesis is too important to take any chances; that's how I _know_ you're going to take care of him, even just from a clinical point of view. And honestly, you're not that cold-hearted. He's a person to you, not just a project."

Dr. Morgan looked at his hand, still feeling the warm pressure from Brena's, and then back up at the over-tired, over-thin, over-worn woman in front of him. "We...we appreciate your trust, Miss...I mean, Brena. Thank you. Truly, thank you. Try to get some rest tonight, though, will you? Deaglan won't be awake until his usual time in the morning, you can feel safe taking a few hours to yourself."

Brena looked at the doors to the MRI lab, then down the hall towards the patient and resident wing. "The chairs here are comfortable. I'll be okay for a little while longer; I found a pretty good magazine, anyway. But, don't let me keep you here, I bet you've got a ton of people to see in the morning. You get yourself some rest, okay? I'm getting some pastries for the nurses on first shift, I'll make sure I grab something for you, too. G'night, Dr. Morgan."

He backed away from her, into the MRI lab to finish his report on Deaglan's spinal fluid and Tau levels, before it occurred to him – she'd never once asked to call him by first name. Dr. Morgan considered going out into the main hallway before he left, but didn't. If she was asleep, he knew opening the main lab doors would wake her up. Instead, he finished his report and left from the back of the lab, looking up the hall distantly from the lobby. Just as she said she'd be, she was paging through a magazine, pausing occasionally to look up at the lab doors. Somehow, though, she knew to turn down the hall and wave goodbye to him. He knew she'd have pastries for him when the nurses' station opened in the morning, a thought which both saddened and perplexed him. "Patience of a saint, or else she's lost her damned mind, too," he muttered, pushing the doors open to the parking lot.

* * *

Brena was restless as anything. She was cold – it was the weather – which wasn't helping things, but she couldn't get back to sleep. Deaglan was still asleep after the spinal procedure and MRI, which was a relief, and she'd decided in lieu of rest to slip home for a shower and change of clothing, considering what pastries to pick up for the nurses and Dr. Morgan as she drove. Pausing at the door, she took a minute to check the mail, not that much came in anymore. A thin layer of dust coated the entire interior of their – now her – home, and while it drove her mad, she couldn't find the time to get back and clean it. _'Aunt Hazel would have gone batty looking at this, but it doesn't matter right now. Cleaning comes later, when you're cleaning up and cleaning out. Right now, take the shower and pack up some changes of clothing.'_ Brena put together different outfits for Deaglan, making a mental note to reorganize his closet at Magee during the next few days and plan for laundry. Her shower verged on too-long, but she wanted to take advantage of the time she had to herself. She hated the smell of hospitals; her ginger soap and shampoo were joined afterward by almond lotion and a smoky, equally gingery perfume oil that she'd picked up walking around the Chinatown neighborhood of Philadelphia with Deaglan last year on his birthday. _'Well...I walked, he rolled. Either way, it was good times. Deaglan actually ate well, and once people knew it was his birthday they tied so many streamers to his wheelchair that it almost looked like he was riding a New Year's dragon by the time we got back to Magee.'_

Driving back to the hospital, she found herself becoming more and more fidgety, full of a nervous energy that had her rocking in her seat at red lights. She parked a good distance away once she got back to the hospital, trying to jog off some of her tension, but it didn't work. Once she was inside, she tried tea, stretching – which brought her shoulders to a level of irritability that matched the rest of her, reading, walking the halls, sitting in the chapel even though she wasn't much for prayer – nothing calmed her, nothing settled her nerves, though it all gave her a chance to warm up. _'Why on earth am I so on edge? Why can't I sleep? Uncle Deaglan doesn't need me for anything right now. I need sleep. Go to sleep, Brena. It's a rare treat for you.'_ Instead, Meredith flagged her down at the nurses' station before she could make it as far as Deaglan's room, and when she pushed open his door and walked in, she resigned herself to likely having lost the opportunity for any more rest that night.

* * *

He couldn't sleep. Nick tried to sleep, then he waited for sleep, then he begged and prayed for sleep, but nothing came. His feet were cold, his bed was tilted awkwardly, he _still_ couldn't organize the sheets and blanket into anything that worked, and had given up on ego and actually tried the call button – which just as he suspected, brought absolutely nobody to his aid. His single bag of luggage mocked him from across the room; he knew there was another hooded zip-up in it, possibly some extra socks, just _something_ to take the chill off of him, but he couldn't trust his feet to carry him that far. In frustration, he slammed the side of his fist into the siderail of his bed, which muffled the slight click of the latch on the door as it snapped shut. Only the room's sudden shift into darkness brought Nick's attention away from his temperature-related predicament and toward the far wall.

"Hello?" Brena's voice was tired but warm, and she walked toward him. "You must be Deaglan's new roommate. Meredith told me you were having a rough night. Does it help to have the door closed? That light from the hall can be a bother."

"You know what? I _don't_ need you to-" Nick was irritated at the woman – the woman _and_ the nurse – for talking about him, felt his temper rise and hitch, and then suddenly, all he could smell was ginger and leaf smoke, and he wanted to bury himself in the scent, try it on like thick mittens and wrap it around him like a scarf. "Wait! Wait. I'm sorry." His eyes, still adjusting to the nearly-complete blackness of the room, struggled to find the small bar of light under the door and orient to it, to see where her feet were in relation to him and the rest of the room. "I'm...sorry." He fought with himself over reaching for her, but doubted it was appropriate and wasn't sure where to aim with his hands so he didn't hit her. _'She walked over here that fast? Or the room is that small? I don't get it. She's gotta be right here,_ _her perfume is right here_ _._ _Why does she care if I'm-_ _'_

"You're freezing." Almonds, now, and almost tangible ginger and leaf-smoke – less a scent and more a feeling – and a small, butter-soft and desperately warm hand on his arm. "Ambulance made a mess of your sheets, didn't they?" He felt all of the fabric over him slide down to the foot of the bed, and then one by one, each sheet came back up in flat panels that made sense but were still too short, followed by the blanket, which Nick then realized was too thin to do any good, organized or not. Her footfalls disappeared, a drawer slid open and closed, and the sound of heavy fabric unfolding around him swallowed him softly before he was again falling through gingery, smoky almonds. "Here, try this for tonight. April weather in Philly is beyond cold, if you're not used to it." Whatever it was she put over him smelled like her, and was immediately soft and warm like her hand.

"I don't...why..." Nick burrowed into the quilt, pulling the edges up around his face, grateful beyond measure for something long enough to cover his feet that he could also curl into, and he felt for a second like a small child.

"Rough night. The first few nights are always like this."

There, Nick bristled. "I won't be here after tomorrow morning. I don't need to be here."

Her voice, still warm, let his comment pass like water. "Your bed's the wrong tilt, too. Look up at the red light on the TV, so you've got something for your eyes to stick to. You won't feel as sick when the bed moves. Meredith told me you hit your head, so I bet you're queasy." She gave him a few seconds to turn his head – her eyes were used to the light in the room, he reasoned, or she had a better view of him, to know when he'd adjusted himself – and then she angled the head of his bed up a bit, so he was upright and reclined, instead of sloppily half-tilted. "There. Much better. It helps the quilt a bit, too. You'll get some sleep, now." He thought he felt her hand brush down his arm, but then he heard his bedrail click into place on her side, and wasn't sure what he felt at all. The smoky gingered almond scent disappeared, and he heard the bed across the room creak as she got into it.

"I...uh...thanks. I didn't get your name?"

"Brena. Get some rest, Nick. You're going to be wanting for it." She was quiet for a second, and then he felt something slightly heavy whop down into his lap, rousing yet another cloud of ginger and smoke. Her breathing evened out almost immediately after she'd thrown the pillow over to him, and he could tell she'd dropped off to sleep.

Arranging the pillow behind his head, infinitely grateful that it was thicker and plusher than anything the hospital had given him, Nick sank deeper into the quilt Brena had laid on him. He traced his fingers against the stitching, trying to understand the pattern that was sewn into it, but it was beyond complicated. He tried to figure out how she knew his name before he told her, but that could be chalked up to that bothersome nurse Meredith. And everywhere, that perfume. Or was it her soap, or a shampoo? Maybe a lotion; the almond scent was light, and he hadn't noticed it til she touched him. _'And I'm a complete stranger, and she can still sleep just like that, that fast, right_ _across the room_ _? Weird. And kinda nice. Yeah. She's nice. Note to self, don't be a dick to her before you leave in the morning.'  
_

* * *

A heartfelt thank-you to everyone who's taken the time to read and review; I know the opening two were a bit long. Brevity ain't my boo.

For anyone wondering, the 'odd-looking' names (Brena and Deaglan) are traditional Irish spellings; they're Anglicized to "Bren-Yah" and "Deck-Lan," respectively.

Nattie - Expect Mr. Mayo to make a few more appearances as this goes on - he can't just be a jerk and disappear. There are a few more wrenches to throw into the works. If anyone reading is looking for a fun, M-rated romp, both Nat's 'Shielded' and 'Can You Help Me Heal?' are delightful.

Eyeliner - My girlie :) I'm waiting to see Blue! Painless posting, riiiiight? (For those of you who have no idea what I mean - Ms. Eyeliner has an AMAZING story in the works involving some of the stars of NXT. It's brilliantly written, and she needs to be nudged into putting it up. Her descriptive ability is stunning. If you're looking for work that's on the psychological/experimental side of authorship, I highly recommend her - especially 'Torrential' and 'There.' (Yes, I'm talking you up. Deal with it.)

Willow - You constantly flatter me with your reviews, you flatterer, you. I will continue to tell my phone what a pretty tree you are! Truly, though, thank you. You put a tremendous amount of time into those reviews, and I appreciate it immensely. If anyone's looking for a new, Shield-related story, Ms. Willow has just started "United We Stand," and it promises to be epic. She's a master of the twist-you-don't-see-coming, and her characterizations are spot-on. The Cinnamon Series is another can't-miss, and "The Girl Who Lived" truly will make you cry. Right in the feels, I tell ya.

EmileeJ - WELCOME! Promise me you won't laugh at all the formatting errors in Analeptic, if you decide to go poking around in my back-catalogue; FF sometimes employs...creative license...when it posts my work, and mashes all the paragraphs together. To answer your question - I'm not a doctor, but I've worked in a psychiatric hospital for seven years, have a bachelor's in psych and a master's in counseling, and am working towards an RN license. Sooo...I'm a bit of a med-dork. :) Everything you read in my fics is factually accurate, when it comes to medical/physical workings. (I'm also an anal-retente about place descriptions, but I digress.) I look forward to hearing from you, either here or in PM, and your favorite-story list looks lovely. I'll have to go swimming!

UselessWithAPen - WELCOME! I hope to hear from you, and of course, thank you for the follow. I'm glad you found something in the first two chapters that you enjoyed. I hope to keep it coming.

To anyone else out there, please do feel free to PM me, ask questions, leave a review even if you hated it and want to tell me I should never type again, or just smack me and say hi. I love to hear from the people who are reading!


	4. Cinnamon

"What do you mean, _six_ months? I've never missed six months of work for _anything!_ "

Brena was trying hard not to listen and focus instead on Deaglan's breakfast, but her effort was being matched in turn by Nick's ever-increasing volume. The two men – well, Nick more than Dr. Morgan – had been bickering back and forth for the better part of twenty minutes, with Nick needing the doctor to repeat himself more than a few times.

"Well, Mr. Nemeth, I'm not sure how else I can explain it. Your employer has already called and explained their expectations to our treatment team, and our treatment team will have goals for your recovery if you remain here for care. You've got a long and serious history of head trauma. They've made it clear, if you plan on returning to your job, you're going to be here for six months of rehab and treatment at a minimum, and thus far, we haven't actually started a program with you." Dr. Morgan was sure to keep his distance; Nick had a decent reach and, were it not for the concussion, what he was sure would be spectacular reflexes. "Clearly it's not what you wanted to hear, and I'm sorry about that. What can we do to-"

"Get me a fucking phone. Get me _my_ phone. _Any_ phone. I'm _leaving_."

"If you'd like to go, we certainly can't hold you here, but I'd suggest calling your employer first. They might be able to make their terms more...clear." Dr. Morgan pointed to the bedside phone. "The instructions are on the handset. I'll leave you to it. Just so you know – because your employer is already aware – you came in listed as a grade 3A repeat concussion. They're under the impression you lost consciousness, at least briefly, at various points during your work. Until – or unless – we do some diagnostics, we can't give you any more information than that, and we can't actually create a treatment plan. You're admitted under observation, but your six months won't start until we've got a plan of action we can submit to your employer. I'm sorry."

"Just go. Just...seriously... _go away._ I need to pack my shit. I'm _leaving._ " _'I bet I have Claudio to thank for that. Who else did I tell that I blanked out? Nobody. I don't think I told anybody else, anyway. Did I? I'm not staying here. They're talking to me like I'm a fucking two year old.'_ Nick snatched for the phone, struggling to make sense of the directions for long-distance dialing and to dredge phone numbers from the sludge of his mind. He felt like he'd fallen into a distillery and drank his way out. The daylight of the room, even filtered through curtains, burnt his eyes, and the battle of wills he felt he'd just engaged in hadn't helped his pounding head.

Dr. Morgan pulled Nick's curtain slightly closed and walked over to Deaglan's bed, resting his hand lightly on the old man's shoulder. Deaglan half-turned his head toward the doctor, but was more interested in his morning coffee, which brought a small smile to Brena's face. "He's doing really well, Dr. Morgan. Did I guess right with the pastries? I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a mixed box. Figured your staff would clean off whatever you weren't too keen on."

"They were stellar, Brena. Really. I don't know how you found that bakery, but it's amazing. The MRI lab thanks you." He smiled warmly at the woman curled into Deaglan's side, her feet again tucked neatly underneath her, and realized he'd never really gauged her height. Even when she stood, she was always buried in oversized hooded sweatshirts that hung mid-thigh on her frame and skewed her appearance.

"It's under Deaglan's brownstone. Er, we're – I'm – above it. The bakers were excited to show off for the staff, at any rate, especially with the cinnamon rolls. They said they put in extra cinnamon and laid some toasted pecans over the tops. Eric was tickled pink that his goodies were going to end up here." Brena smiled and stretched, cracking her shoulders and drawing a wince from Dr. Morgan. "Oh, don't mind me. Old injuries die hard, and I'm paying for sleeping in that chair last night. I'll be fine. Don't let us keep you too long, Dr. Morgan. We'll let you know if anything changes. Today's a good day for reading and some cail-on-demand. I think the forecast called for sleet, or something equally awful when you consider that it's April."

"Sounds like a plan, Brena. You, uh," Dr. Morgan cocked his head at Nick's bed, and wrinkled an eyebrow, "You let me know if anything _needs_ to change, too, okay?"

Light, musical, almost glittering, Brena's laugh permeated the room. "Does anyone ever come in happy, Dr. Morgan? Deaglan being the odd exception, I know." She tilted Deaglan's coffee cup to his lips before continuing in a much quieter tone. "Nick'll settle in, call it a hunch. He came in cold and angry last night, and he's probably confused and starving now. Plus, you didn't make it sound like his employer is giving him a lot of leeway in this. I'd be upset, too."

"Upset? A physical impossibility, Brena," Dr. Morgan snorted, "But if you say so. I'll leave him here for now. However, if he disrupts anything for you or Deaglan, out he goes." Shaking his head, Dr. Morgan left the room and continued on with rounds, stopping just long enough at the nurses station to nudge Meredith into an extra cup of coffee, knowing her midnight shift didn't do much for her general disposition, and to ask her to keep an eye out for paperwork indicating a discharge against medical advice from Deaglan's roommate. Meredith nearly cackled in amusement, and said Magee should be so lucky.

* * *

Nick, meanwhile, was getting no further with the phone. The directions were making less and less sense each time he read them on the stem of the handset, and he felt himself becoming an odd knot of lightheaded fury. _'I need to eat. I feel too pukey to eat. I want water. That coffee smells amazing. I need to call the fucking company and get myself out of here before I starve to death or vomit on the person who's gonna do my discharge paperwork.'_ Quietly, a nurse aide came into the room and removed both Deaglan's and his breakfast trays, though Nick hadn't ever realized one had been brought and it hardly registered that his meal was not only cold, but was now leaving the room without his having touched it.

Brena followed the nurse aide out of the room and down to the microwave in the staff break area, warming two cinnamon rolls on a plate and bringing them back to her uncle's room. His breakfast was decent enough, but she knew he'd enjoy the treat from the bakery at home so much more than a hospital omelet. She hadn't been back in the room more than a minute or two, trying to cue up the website for her uncle's cail match and unwrap a plastic fork for the giant pastries, before Nick's voice sliced through the air, half-longing and half-irritable.

"Did you _have_ to bring that in here? I'm fucking starving, nobody brought breakfast." He was using the phone's receiver to nudge the curtain back out of his way, breathing deeply and eyeballing the cinnamon rolls lasciviously.

"Oh...well, that's not quite what happened." Brena found the website she needed and waited for the ads to finish playing, adjusting the height of the overbed table as well as the head of Deaglan's bed. With the laptop firmly on the table, she turned to face Nick properly, holding the plate in her lap. The pastries were huge, and she couldn't help herself from smiling at the ridiculous look on his face. He acted as though he'd never seen food in his life. Behind her, the cail match started, and Deaglan sent up a happy grunt. Brena reached back to squeeze his hand, and slid from the edge of the bed to her feet, walking toward Nick with the plate but stopping well short of arm's reach, unlike the last night. "A nurse aide brought you breakfast while you were talking to the doctor...and then took it out while you were trying to use the phone. It's probably for the best; cold omelets are terrible."

"So now what, I just lay here and starve?" Nick threw the receiver towards the base of the phone and flopped back on his – her – pillow dramatically, a move he again regretted. While her pillow was leaps and bounds better than the one given to him by the rehab center, he still couldn't be pulling moves like that. His head wasn't in the mood for additional impacts, fluffy or otherwise. _'Note to self number two: Stop throwing yourself around like you're in the ring. You're in a hospital bed.'_ Not all was lost, his maneuver roused a cloud of smoke-ginger around him, and he decided the scent must either be her shampoo or perfume.

"No, I was going to ask if you wanted me to get another plate and fork. You were looking at the cinnamon rolls like you might even think about getting out of bed for them."

"You can stop with the Glenda The Good Nurse act. Aren't you occupied enough with him?" He waved his hand at Deaglan. "I didn't ask for a babysitter or a waitress. I'm gonna get my company on the line and I'm gonna leave." Snatching at the receiver from where he'd thrown it, he slammed it back on the base of the phone, waited for the phone to reset, and then lifted it to his ear again.

Brena just shrugged and walked back to Deaglan with her plate. "Suit yourself. Dial nine for long distance." She scooted back up into her uncle's bed, working the fork through the layers of one roll and nudging Deaglan's lips apart around it. Nick continued to eye the cinnamon rolls as though he might lunge after them, but Brena ignored him. She figured it was his frustration and injury talking, and suspected there was a decent person under there somewhere. Not five minutes later, Meredith banged into the room to check the score in the match and take Deaglan's blood pressure, her mouth full of hazelnut cake.

"You're a right bitch for bringing this in when you know I'm on a diet."

"And you love me anyway, Meredith. Now hush, I can't hear them call the match." Brena elbowed her, jostling her stethoscope loose from its position against her uncle's arm. "And please don't get Nick started," Brena added, quietly, "His morning's not much improved from his night, far as I can tell."

"I can _hear_ you," Nick called, putting his hand over the receiver while he waited for his call to connect. "Does _everyone_ here talk about people like they're stupid?"

Meredith rolled her eyes. "He came in surly, yeah, but he's _still_ like that after he slept? _And_ you put him under one of your good quilts? You need to have more discerning taste, Bren."

"Just be nice, Mer. He doesn't have his feet under him yet, and something tells me that phone call isn't about to be sunshine and roses." Pausing and blinking, she caught her friend's meaning and swatted Meredith's arm heavily. "And for heaven's sake, Meredith! He was freezing. You left him in a heap of sheets and with one blanket that didn't hit his toes. Giving him a quilt has nothing to do with my taste. You behave yourself, or no more pastry."

"Then I'm a bitch all day, or else you're having me gain ten pounds. I'll come back and bother Prince Blondie once he's off the phone." She glared over at Nick, then huffed and rolled her eyes. "Besides, _he_ only ended up _here_ because it was the only bed left in the place. You'd be nice to the devil himself if I put him in this room. It's just how you are." Making a few notes on a clipboard and dropping it back into the slot at the foot of Deaglan's bed, Meredith winked at Brena and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Nick tuned out the women as they bantered back and forth. He'd managed to put together Claudio's phone number from fragments of memory, and was waiting for him to answer. The phone seemed to ring forever, but Nick figured his friend was in a different time zone by now. The delay gave him time to consider ways to approach the situation – whether to be angry that Claudio had ratted him out to medical about blacking out, whether to appreciate his concern but tell him to back off, or whether to beg for help in getting out of whatever hospital he was in at the moment.

"Hello? What number is this? Nick, that is you?"

"Claudio? C, man, please, you gotta get me out of here. This is all fucked up. This place is all wrong. _Please_." _'Welp, that answers that. Option C, begging.'_

"Nick, my friend! It is good to hear your voice. I trust all is well?" Claudio sounded as though he was half-asleep and in bed, and Nick felt immensely guilty. "The doctor here told me they were sending you to Magee. You should be in Philadelphia right now, are you not? The facility is supposed to be top-notch. Grade one. Er, grade A? Whatever your expression is."

"C, I dunno. There's no food, they wanna keep me here six months, and you told them I blacked out. Why'd you do that, man? They're gonna...this is...C, this is just _fucked_. This is _wrong._ Six months! I can't. I just wanna go home. I can rehab at home. Can't you talk to them? No, give me the number to Talent Relations. Or medical. I'll talk to them."

"It is too late, Nick. The word backstage is that you _will_ be out six months, or you cannot come back. Your injury is serious, whether or not you remember it, or understand it. Please, Nick...let them help you. The facility you are at, they are very, very good. Very professional. I will be able to visit you soon. Stay there at least until I can visit. I will bring you extra clothing, your laptop, things like that. It will help you feel at home."

"Claudio, you're not _listening_ to me!" Nick was nearly hysterical; he knew he was yelling into the phone and he didn't care.

"And for that, I am sorry. But you must stay there. Call Talent Relations if you must, but their answer will be the same. Stay, or quit. So please, Nick, stay. I will see you soon, and I will call you again later."

"No, Claudio, listen -"

The line went dead, and Nick stared at the phone before reaching over and dropping it down on the base, not knowing what else to do with himself. From across the room, Brena's laugh spilled out again, and he peeked around his curtain, trying to watch her and Deaglan without being noticed. Cail had been replaced by a history of some rugby team he didn't recognize, and he could hear her plastic fork click against the plate as she lifted bite after bite of cinnamon roll to her uncle's mouth, punctuated by sips of coffee. She looked like she was nearly wearing a tarp – her hoodie was tattered and giant over her bony frame and had some sort of college logo on it, but he had no idea from what school – and she had to keep shaking her hair out of her face. The cut and style, or what was left of it, suited her – the ends were spiky and angular like the rest of her body. Bothering him the most, though, was the pastry. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why she hadn't eaten any of her _own_ cinnamon roll, but had moved it to another plate. _'She's scrawny. Her sweatshirt's ratty, her hair's shaggy. She looks tired as fuck. That bitchy nurse really wasn't kidding, this chick's gotta be here all the time. So...what's his deal? And is she gonna eat that?'_

Nick puzzled over the two of them for a few minutes longer before it became too much effort to lean that far forward, and slid the bedside curtain into place before he eased himself back against his pillow. Philadelphia and Stamford were in the same time zone; if he could figure out who to call, then he could at least be sure of getting someone to pick up the phone during normal business hours. Nick knew he had all the right numbers in his cell phone, but whether or not Claudio had thrown it in the bag of clothing that was sent with him, he didn't know. And he wouldn't know, since his bag was still next to his dresser, too far from him to be of any use. Across the room, one of the two of occupants of the bed had settled into a rhythmic wheezing, and the other had gone completely silent. Suddenly, he heard feet patting around the bed, sheets rustling, and then the plate coming up off the overbed table. _'There goes the cinnamon roll. Fuck. She's gonna eat that.'_ Nick burrowed himself deeper into the mattress, pouting over the loss of the pastry, having completely forgotten that he'd turned it down once already.

Thin fingers holding a well-worn ceramic plate popped suddenly around the edge of Nick's curtain. "Here, really, have it. I'm sorry it's cold, and your stomach's probably not in the mood for something this heavy, but you said you were hungry."

Nick jolted, hard, and ended up coughing because she'd startled him so thoroughly. Annoyed for the umpteenth time that morning, he snatched the plate from her hand and slammed it down into his lap. Her hand disappeared briefly, and reappeared holding another fork and a paper napkin. This time, he didn't reach up, merely looked at her hand curiously, as though he expected her to poke him as payback for grabbing the plate.

Patiently, Brena stood there, invisible behind the curtain, and waiting. When she finally did speak, her voice was soft and still. "You'll want a fork, Nick. They tend to come apart if you pick them up." She hadn't stepped around the end of the curtain, though he felt like she should have, and so he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her forward. Brena simply followed his pull and found herself standing next to his bed, his hand still wrapped firmly around her wrist, his fingers crossing back over his thumb.

 _'Tiny. Really, really tiny. Tiny, warm, almonds. Definitely ginger perfume, but what's the smoky part? You should probably let go now, Nick.'_ Slowly, he slid his hand past her wrist to the fork, pulled it from her grasp, and shoved her hand away, annoyed he'd gotten caught up in whatever it was about her that had twice now tangled around him.

"Hope you like it." Brena rubbed at her wrist, but her face remained terrifyingly neutral.

"Thanks, Nurse Glenda," Nick spat at her. "I'm sure it's _spectacular._ "

"You're welcome." Voice still gentle, Brena kept her movements compact and slow, and fussed at the bottom of his quilt – somewhere in all of his fretting and flopping, it'd come up over his feet. She smoothed it, looked up at the pastry as though it looked back at her, then returned to Deaglan's side of the room.

Alone again, and grateful for the lack of an audience to his gluttony, Nick stabbed the fork through the cinnamon roll, breaking off an obscenely large piece and shoveling it into his mouth. He felt himself drop the fork on the plate; there was no earthly way anything could taste that good – it had to be because he was so hungry, or so disoriented – but a second and then third bite convinced him: at least cinnamon rolls in Philadelphia could taste that good. The dough was buttery and pillowy, and each layer of cinnamon filling was a perfect mix of sticky and spicy. The icing was sweet and mellow, with a vague hint of buttermilk, and occasionally a toasted pecan would crumble as he chewed, imbuing whatever bite he had with a hint of nuttiness. The pastry was essentially perfect, even if it pained him to admit it. Nick rubbed his feet together again, glad to be warm. His fingers closed around the fork, his mind closed around her wrist, and he felt intensely guilty. _'What was the first note to self, dipshit? Don't be a dick to her before you leave?'_

"Hey, uh...hey, Brena?"

Silence, then more silence, and Nick resigned himself to having pissed her off, until he heard a door creak open. On the other side of the room, water started running in the bathroom, and so he waited. Soon, he heard her slipping the coffee pot onto its hotplate, and the scent of coffee – _good_ coffee – filled the room. Nick heard her pouring what he assumed was a cup for herself, but she surprised him again by popping around the end of his curtain and placing a steaming ceramic mug, along with a handful of creamer pots and sugar packets, on his overbed table. She moved it, carefully within his reach and looked at him.

"Listen, I'm sorry I grabbed you. I don't-"

Brena glanced up at him and shook her head; the gesture was reassuring and dismissive in equal parts, and so he stopped talking. Whatever it was she found in his expression was enough for her, good or bad, and she moved silently back to Deaglan's bedside. Nick groaned in frustration, largely at himself, but continued eating, and chanced a few sips of coffee. Dark and almost chocolatey, he was glad he'd tasted it before he polluted it with cream and sugar, and hoped she didn't defile hers the same way. After a few minutes, he realized he hadn't heard her climb up next to her uncle, and so he leaned, carefully, to look for her feet. She was simply standing by Deaglan's bed, and if Nick strained his ears, he could hear her singing quietly, words he couldn't recognize, and for whatever reason, he imagined her arranging Deaglan's sheets and blankets, maybe stroking his arm – he'd sworn she'd stroked his the night before. Something in her was unshakably steady, unnervingly tolerant.

When she finally moved again, it could have been minutes or even hours later, though Nick's coffee hadn't cooled enough for it to be the latter. His sense of time was beyond warped, and he resigned himself to not understanding much more than 'day' and 'night' until his brain decided to shuffle itself back into good working order. He found himself holding his breath as Brena crossed the room to the coffeepot, poured another cup, and clicked the hotplate off. Nick was pleased for reasons he couldn't explain when he didn't hear a single pot of cream or packet of sugar open afterward, and scraped the last of the icing off the plate, not sure when he'd finished the pastry. _'Not sure about much, are you, Nemeth? Six months. Sure as fuck about that one.'_ He put his empty plate next to his coffee cup, and let himself slip into a nap.

* * *

Willow - I'm headed over to your new one right now! :) Thank you so much for your review. For anyone looking for writing involving the Shield in-ring, please check out Willow's "United We Stand" - jump on board while it's just getting started, her stories are always a great read!

Eyeliner - Dr. Morgan will prove to be one of those "Hmm" characters, as time goes by. I'm still waiting for Blue, by the way...

Nattie - Can't wait for the follow-up to Shielded! How's that going? As to Nick...he's going to be a treat, put it that way. :) We haven't seen the last of a few irritating factors, either.

Anyone else who's out there, feel free to drop me a line or a review. I'd love to hear from you!


	5. Know The Ropes Before You Hang Yourself

Claudio kept his word and called back, saying he'd be able to visit in two weeks' time, a delay which frustrated Nick beyond coherent words, and he slammed the phone down on his friend before sulking into a miserable silence for the rest of the day. Brena left him largely to his own devices, though she'd occasionally wander over to adjust his curtains or tug at the edges of his quilt. Nick couldn't decide if he was annoyed by her ministrations or not, and so he occasionally lashed out at her simply for being there – asking who decided she was maid service when she closed the curtains to keep the sun from his face, or flicking a foot at her hands if she tried to keep the edge of the quilt evenly hung at the bottom of the bed. She took it all in stride, and the staff was only too glad to have to deal minimally with Nick. He was _in_ the clinic, though he hadn't yet consented to their program of treatment – but at the same time, hadn't asked to leave. For the moment, his was simply a game of hands-off observation unless an emergency occurred, and once his fog cleared, Dr. Morgan would again try to talk him into actual treatment, formally beginning his six month term. It didn't matter to Magee; Nick's employer was signing checks for it, so as far as they were concerned, the bed was his.

* * *

Days passed before Nick was able to get through to some of the higher-ups in Stamford – he'd at least had the good sense to stay at Magee until he talked to someone in corporate – all of whom confirmed what Dr. Morgan had told him: he was at Magee for a minimum of six months for treatment of a suspected Grade 3A concussion, to be extended based on the facility's findings. No transfers, no downgrades, no debates or discussions, or no job. He could void his contract and go work for a different outfit if he was interested in continuing his career, but it wouldn't be under the umbrella of the WWE. That tidbit brought him to seething, and Nick ended the call by hurling the already-abused phone wholesale, base and all, across the room and into the dresser. Deaglan startled at the noise, but Brena paid it no mind and continued reading to him – _Brooklyn_ , despite their being in Philly – holding his hand and lifting it to the pages each time one needed to be turned.

The noise, however, brought Meredith flying into the room. Initially, she thought Deaglan had fallen, but then thought herself stupid for even letting the idea cross her mind. Brena would sooner break both her legs trying to catch Deaglan than let him land on the floor, or even be in a situation where landing on the floor was possible. _'No, it's Prince Blondie. Again. This is it, I swear to God. Rooms are getting moved, today. Enough is enough, Mister Captain Temper Tantrum can have his little shit-fits in a single bed, without an audience.'_ She stormed in, pen raised in the air like a conductor's wand, ready to send room assignments floating through the hospital like musical notes, but immediately stopped herself. Brena had tucked Deaglan safely into the middle of his bed, lifted his siderails, and like a saint or an idiot, wandered over to Nick's bed. The phone was still on the floor; Brena wasn't much fussed over that, but Nick looked close to rage.

Meredith froze near the door. She and Nick didn't gel at all, and it was for precisely that reason that Dr. Morgan had assigned her as the lead RN for his care. She was absolutely dispassionate about him as a patient – she cared _for_ him, but had no personal investment in him, which was exactly what the facility wanted. Meredith couldn't have cared less that he was a celebrity of any sort; as far as she was concerned, he was a high-maintenance quasi-professional-athlete who landed squarely in her 'princess' category of patients. He'd only been at the facility for a handful of days, and already, she was ready for him to be out the door. Typically, she loved her job – some patients were at Magee for rehabilitation, some were biding their time until their dementia or Alzheimer's claimed them, others were in for study participation – Deaglan was a special case unto himself – and then there was Nick. He _should_ have been a simple case of rehabilitation and monitoring, like as not to be moved from inpatient to outpatient well before six months, but being as stubborn as he was, he'd be there the whole time if not longer.

Beyond that, Meredith had heard more than a few of his exchanges with Brena. _'How she hasn't folded him in half in the hospital bed yet, I don't know. He's an asshole more often than not, head injury or no. Then again...it's Brena. You'd stab her, and she'd ask if you'd like her to die in the lawn so she didn't dirty up the carpet.'_ He'd been short at times, downright insulting at others, and she still was gentle towards him. Meredith chalked it up to Brena keeping her temper in check for Deaglan's benefit, not wanting to upset her uncle by telling Nick to stuff his attitude up his ass, and then considered – she'd never once seen Brena display anything close to a temper.

* * *

Brena had plenty of reasons to show a sour side, even if only her current situation at Magee was considered. Insurance companies constantly tried to scam her, sending invoice after invoice to Deaglan's bedside at the hospital. While Deaglan was at Magee and his care was fully covered by the facility, she shouldn't have received a single bill. For reasons nobody could quite figure out, his old insurance carrier insisted on attempting to bill for his procedures, and Brena chalked it up to HIPAA laws and electronic reporting – the past carrier had to be receiving notification somehow, thus somewhere, procedural information was being sent out. She never blamed Magee's billing department, she never went to war against Deaglan's old carrier, she simply sat on the phone once a month, sifting through a pile of paperwork, humming along to the hold music when she knew the song being played, waiting her turn in an endless call queue to get the charges voided. Most people would have cried and filed for bankruptcy after receiving medical bills for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Brena simply shrugged and said she'd work it out, unfailingly polite to whoever she was dealing with on the other end of the line, thanking them for their patience in handling her complicated situation. _'She always said it was a good excuse to have a cup of tea, and that she liked the hold music when they played classical. Reminded her of being at home.'_

Other times, procedures on Brena's uncle had gone awry and she'd come close to losing him. Deaglan's age made even simple medical interventions risky, and few if any of the procedures the study required were simple. His Alzheimer's made it nearly impossible for him to lay still for MRI's, so he had to be sedated – always a risky gamble involving powerful chemicals and the use of needles. Spinal taps, meant to test for Tau levels, could cause him pain that he couldn't articulate – or they could simply kill him. Even medications could tax his system to the point of failure, and there was no way of knowing what medications would impact him in which ways until he took them and they built up to therapeutic levels. In short, most everything about Deaglan's health was a game of wait and see, with the 'seeing' not often visible until days after the procedure was complete. Meredith had seen Deaglan become combative and disoriented due to the significant progression of his Alzheimer's, and knew Brena would often discover bruises or injuries on him days after he'd gone to various labs in the facility, from needle sticks, the procedures themselves, or simply from him flailing around due to the strangeness and confusion of what was going on around him. It wasn't ever anything the doctors and nurses had done to him intentionally – but it was all slow in healing, and it all was another worry for Brena.

In terms of practicalities, money was tight – Deaglan and Hazel lived comfortably and had doted on Brena growing up, but were never tremendously well-off, and Deaglan had insisted Hazel be cared for at home in her dying days, which drained him financially. Now, Brena barely slept, her days, nights, and social life were consumed first by taking care of her dying aunt and now her dying uncle, and she intentionally kept her personal problems private, away from the few friends she did have. Meredith shook her head, recalling how hard it was to get Brena to open up to her, even after she had been assigned to Deaglan and the two women had spent myriad days together caring for him – and the pressure valve that seemed to release, once Brena finally did start to talk. _'Brena said she was lucky to have the few people in her life who did stick around, so why bother them with complaints? Why make it harder to be around her, when she knew it was already so hard?'_ Brena's only outlet, as far as Meredith knew, was Meredith. She shook out her shoulders, squared them, and prepared herself for dealing with Nick.

* * *

"Do you want me to call the doctor for you? I can get Dr. Morgan in here if you-"

"What the fuck does that have to do with me?" Nick, embarrassed at being caught in his tantrum, furious with management in Stamford for trapping him at Magee, and feeling so far beyond helpless that he didn't have a word for it, snapped at Brena.

"It seemed like you-"

"How about you stop fucking _bothering_ me? Like...what the fuck is with you? I don't _get_ you. Don't you have enough shit to do with him? Go deal with your deaf-mute lump over _there_. In _that_ bed. I'm _fine._ I don't need you up in my shit every five seconds!"

For a split second, Brena's lips tightened into a thin line. "I...okay. I was going to ask if you wanted your bag, too, but..." She shrugged and looked back at the door. "Oh. Hello, Meredith. I'm...uh...you know, never mind. I was reading to Deaglan, but I think we'll finish our book in the day room. Do you have a second to bring me his chair, or are you busy?"

Wordlessly, Meredith pushed Deaglan's wheelchair close against his bed, so Brena could pivot-turn him into it. She tucked a blanket carefully around him, laid a pillow in his lap, and pressed his book into his hands. Gently, so as not to startle him, Brena pushed him up to the door, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder.

"I hope you feel better, Nick."

Meredith groaned, and ushered Brena and Deaglan fully out into the hallway.

"You need to just stop, Bren. I'm having him moved. And he's _not_ worth your effort." She gestured dismissively back at the room, as though she was shooing a fly out of the air.

"There's nowhere else to put him, Mer. Plus, moving him around just means disrupting other people in here. Let leave be." Brena looked toward Deaglan's door as though she expected another smart remark from Nick to come echoing out into the hallway because she dared talk about him. "Besides, he keeps getting bad news. Once he gets it settled in his head that he's really got to be here, he'll change. I don't think he's really had a chance to figure out what's going on."

"Assholes don't suddenly smell like roses, you know."

"And not everyone's going to the jacks all day, either."

Meredith rolled her eyes, but chuckled. "You could've just said 'shitting,' Little Miss Irish. Actually, no. No, you're Brena. You couldn't say _that_. The world would stop spinning." She waved Brena down the hall to the day room, and stepped back in with Nick, pausing to flip the red and brown plastic status flags above the door before she closed it. _'Stop flag for a 'code brown' – nobody's coming in here to deal with a shitty bed, so it's just you and me. And we, sir, are about to have a conversation. Brena might not cuss you out, but I will. And since you're the one with the questionable memory, none of this ever happened.'_

* * *

Snapping the curtain back, Meredith stood at the foot of the bed and stared up at Nick, who met her eyes, drew a knee up to his chest, and crossed his arms, looking for all the world like a defiant child. She inhaled deeply and considered her words for a fraction of a second before launching herself verbally at him.

"You need to back the fuck off on her. The _only_ reason you're still in here and not rehabbing in a broom closet on the roof is because she asked us not to move you. And you _might_ want to get your shit straight on Deaglan, because his brain is what's gonna end up saving yours, you ungrateful fuck."

"Are you always this much of a bitch to your patients, or am I just bringing out the best in you?" Nick's voice was down to a growl. He wouldn't hit a woman, he knew that much, but he'd pound on the call button til he got another nurse, or a doctor, or God himself in the room to get the crazy staff out, followed by getting _him_ out. He could always explain it to Stamford later. The rapid clicking coming from his call button was silenced when Meredith yanked it from his hand and hung it behind him over the bed, far and awkwardly out of his reach.

"You haven't seen 'bitch' yet. This is a friendly warning. I can order all your meds in suppository form, minus the lube." Meredith snatched Nick's arm, now not occupied with the call button, away from his chest and wrapped it in a blood pressure cuff, squeezing it tight enough to start a tingle in his fingers. "You really don't understand what you've got, in Brena. Not one clue." She was so occupied with their argument that she simply kept at the cuff, not bothering to actually read it, but more than managing to over-inflate it.

"Deaglan's Fairy Goddaughter? Give me a fucking break. She's an act. Nobody's that fucking nice all the time. I mean, shit, just look at _you_. Prime example." Nick snatched the velcro of the cuff apart, since Meredith hadn't bothered doing anything beyond trap his arm in it, and stuffed it roughly back into her hands. "How much does Brena get when he kicks off? Six figures, or seven? She made it sound like she's already got the house, and since she gets her ass there, back, and all over this bullshit city just fine, she's _clearly_ already got the car." Nick paused for effect. "Then again, if it's in the same shape they're in, it's a rat-assed piece of shit." He snorted. " _Either_ one of them. She's a goddamned train wreck and he's one ingrown toenail away from coding out. Is there a _reason_ she's always in bed with him, or is that just sealing the inheritance deal?"

Meredith dropped the blood pressure cuff on the bedside table and snatched her clipboard up so fast that Nick flinched involuntarily; for a second he really _did_ think she'd bring it down against his jaw.

"Brena's _no_ act. All that calm...constant...kinda irritating... _niceness?_ That's just _her._ It's how she is, the way she's wired. Don't think it didn't drive me crazy at first, because it did, but it's really just _genuine_. Plus, she manages to pull it off after her fucked up parents just _dumped_ her with Deaglan and Hazel when she was a kid, then she wrecked her shoulders – and that was the beginning of the end of university for her – and she ended up coming back from that because her aunt was dying. Hazel's was a miserable death that ended up being the reason she even _found out_ her uncle had Alzheimer's. She's been watching Deaglan die for _years,_ so fuck if I know how she doesn't just walk out in front of one of the SEPTA trains. And you don't have the right to even know _any_ of that, but I'm telling you because Brena's a _person_ , not your personal verbal punching bag."

Nick was still and quiet, trying to wrangle Meredith's words down into something that made sense, but failing. Everything she said was too complicated, echoed too loudly with sadness, and tugged at things in his memory, but he wasn't sure what. His change in demeanor was lost on Meredith, who plowed ahead full-bore.

"And let me tell you something _else_ , Drama King," Meredith poked him in the arm with her pen, "You're being a dick to her because you're pissed off that you fucked up at work. Welcome to reality, now _deal_ with it. You're human. You got hurt. You're not dying – he is. And he's here because he's basically a human petri dish for a research study that's gonna save your ass when you're his age, because it means your brain might _not_ rot. You might _not_ end up like him. And you're a miserable fucking ingrate."

Nick was still braced for an impact that he strangely felt a bit like he deserved – he now knew bits and pieces about Brena, not enough for any sort of a clear picture, but enough that he felt she might be more complicated than just, 'Smells nice, too pleasant for her own good, overall an oddball.' Her attempts to be kind were legitimate, or so it seemed. Deaglan was a part of her larger picture as well, though Nick didn't understand much of what Meredith meant about how it related to him. Most painful of all, she was right – he was mad at the company and at himself, and Brena was a convenient target purely because of proximity.

"Look at you," she continued, "How many days have you been here, huh? More than a few, and since you know you're gonna be here a while, you should have your own shit here by now. Your company should've sent it, or that guy you call and bitch at ten times a day. But no. _Her_ quilt, _her_ pillow, and the first day you were here she gave up her fucking danish or whatever it was, because you missed breakfast when you were bitching at Dr. Morgan. She even brewed you a goddamned cup of coffee. Coffee! And did you even say thank you?"

"No," Nick whispered, "I mean...not really. I think I grabbed her wrist, but-" Nick looked down at his hands, remembering how his fingers crossed over each other around her – she was so small that he could literally reach _around_ her wrist when he held her.

"You know what, just _stop_ talking. Don't say anything else, because I'll have you in four-point restraints so fast you won't know what hit you. You _grabbed_ her? You're not just mouthy, you want to go around _assaulting_ people, too?" Meredith was bouncing between shocked and angry like a metronome searching for a rhythm that would help her pace her actions and thoughts. "Listen to me. Look up, and listen to me."

Obediently, Nick looked up, mouth shut, eyes conveying a world of confused hurt. Meredith glowered at him before she continued."First of all, tell me you haven't done that shit again, because I really _will_ have you kept in restraints until you've got your wits in working order. You _do not_ put your hands on people here, no matter how hard you got clipped in the head." Nick shook his head mutely, so Meredith continued. "Second, _stop_ fucking with her. Seriously, stop it. Either take what decency she's offering you and be grateful, or just shut your fucking mouth. She has enough going on without you being a dick. She doesn't need the complication."

Nodding, Nick watched Meredith open the door and leave the room, mumbling something about Tylenol and jackasses, slapping the plastic flags down to neutral, and turning to head away from the nurses' station and toward what he assumed would be the day room, probably to talk to Brena. She made it a few steps away, then turned back to his room and shut the door, huffing at him in frustration. Nick rolled his eyes, but the gesture was largely aimed at himself. _'First thing I said was not to be a dick to her. First fucking thing. And now I'm stuck here for six months with her – and that crazy nurse – and I called her uncle a...I don't even remember. My headache won't go away. I shoulda asked Brena to keep reading.'_

* * *

Several hours passed, and Brena and Deaglan still hadn't returned. Nick still hadn't figured out the television, or what was tugging at the far corners of his mind, though the latter was bothering him much more than the former. Something about Brena, her kindness, the fact she and Deaglan still hadn't returned from wherever in the hospital they'd gone, and Meredith's rebuke of his attitude and vitriol had all combined into something that was crackling and wild, something that conjured up hurt feelings and made him feel strangely lonely, but was simultaneously nothing he could put his finger on and say, 'This is what I'm thinking of, I know what's bothering me.' He didn't know if it was because the thought was unimportant, or the concussion was that severe, but it gnawed at him.

Usually, Nick's clearest thinking was done in the gym, but that wasn't an option for him. Instead, he'd managed to drag himself to the bathroom and to his bag of clothing, which felt like as much of a workout as anything else he'd put himself through in the past. As much as Nick wanted to change clothes, he wanted to shower more, but was afraid he'd fall. The best he'd managed in the time he'd been at Magee was a wash-up in the sink, and nobody had pushed him for more – he's been too hostile for his treatment to be started, much less a hygiene routine. Both lunch and dinner had come and gone, untouched by him. Meredith's words rattled around in his head, that somehow Deaglan was meant to help him and Brena was more genuine and confusing than she let on, but above all else, he was to shelve his attitude and deal with what life was handing him. All that, and he couldn't make up his mind between a white t-shirt and a blue t-shirt. Both hurt his eyes.

Giving up, which seemed to be the theme of his stay at Magee, Nick threw both shirts over the foot of his bed and tried to lay down again. He didn't gauge the edge of the bed correctly when he sat down, and slipped off the side. He landed roughly, slamming his shoulder into his nightstand and sending the room up into a spiral above his head. The steps necessary to getting himself out of the situation and back into bed were completely lost on him. The floor was cold, his arm was trapped against his side, and he'd hit the back of his head again – the double-vision that had almost left him was now back, full force. Complicating things further was the curtain surrounding his bed. Nick had pulled it shut after Meredith left, partly from frustration and partly from a need to wall off from the potential of Brena and Deaglan's return until he sorted himself out and could be civil, and now he wasn't sure anyone who came in would see him in order to help him. With the door to the room shut as well, he was stuck. He had to wait until someone came to help him; meanwhile, the world whirled around him. _'Even if Brena comes back, I can't ask her for help. I can't find the stupid call button, and nobody came last time. I keep making things worse. I keep making everything worse.'_

* * *

Still having no sense of time, Nick remained on the floor. His feet were cold beyond feeling, and his arm was falling asleep, but still no one came. He knew it had passed 'a while' and gone into 'a really long time.' Nick tried calling for help, but figured he was being ignored after his first few attempts went unanswered. He'd almost nodded off against the bedframe when he heard Brena's voice wavering thinly outside the door. Nick was almost positive she'd asked Deaglan a question – maybe it was all in his head since the door was shut and the odds of him actually hearing her were slim – but he forced himself to focus in their direction and watch for the shift in light. Once in the room, Brena lifted Deaglan up into bed, adjusted his sheets and blankets, and nudged his slippers out of the way. Finally, Nick heard her kiss his forehead, a light tick of her lips, and then sigh heavily.

"Guess I get the chair again, Uncle D. Did you know you're a terrible bed-hog?" Brena's voice was exhausted, but had a bit of a tease to it. Nick imagined her looking longingly at the hospital bed, almost desperate for rest, and for a second he considered telling her to take his – until it occurred to him, he needed her to _help,_ not to sleep. He hated to ask her for anything. She sounded miserably tired, he'd be an asshole to her that morning, and now, whether by accident, design due to the nurses' ignoring him, or simple bad luck, he was going to have to talk to her – and well before he was ready to.

"Uh...Brena?"

"Yes, Nick?" Her voice held no malice whatsoever; she was plainly worn out and bone-sad.

 _'She has nothing left, and I'm about to ask her for more. I'm such a fucking waste.'_ "Can...uh...can I ask you for something? I mean, you don't have to, maybe you can just ask Meredith, but...uh..."

"Meredith's shift ended hours ago. Come on. Up off the floor with you."

* * *

Welcome, CaptainBartholomew! I'm glad you're finding it enjoyable :) Thank you for the review.

Also, welcome lostboyalien! Glad to have you on board the story. Thank you for the follow.

Eyeliner, Willow, Nattie, Em - thank you for your reviews :) For those of you reading - you've got some seriously talented authoresses in this line right here. There's a full range of stories available in EyexLinerxWhore, WillowEdmond, and Nattiebroskette's back catalogues; I encourage you all to take a look. It's a great read all around!


	6. Who's Sorry Now?

Yes, it's a bit short, but consider it the footbridge to greater places.

Welcome ZombieTKBaha! Thank you for the reviews - I'm glad you're enjoying it :)

Mom2, I hope you're still out there and sticking with it. If it helps, just picture an incapacitated Orton. ;)

For all of you on Team Meredith - yes, yes she is that cool. And she only gets better with time.

* * *

Nick never did figure out how Brena knew he was on the ground before she looked around the curtain, but for what felt like the hundredth time since he'd arrived, she ended up smoothing the sheets and quilt over him in bed. She managed him up to standing fairly easily and nudged him back onto the mattress, and he'd let himself smile inwardly at how easily she moved him. He was expecting there to be a height difference between them that made it awkward, or that his weight would throw her off-balance, but she was taller than he expected and other than a minor positional correction – which was more the nightstand being in the way than any difficulty with his size – she handled him gracefully. To be fair, though, Nick had somewhat helped Brena stand him up with the leg that wasn't asleep – and winced as the feeling came back into the one that was twisted underneath him.

Disoriented as he was from the impact to his head, Nick was still able to manage an inner monologue as Brena moved him back up into his bed. _'That's kinda impressive, that she just hefted me up like that. Then again, she's been hauling Deaglan around for how long? Fuck, Nemeth, stop that. Not hauling. She cares about him. Maybe she cares a little too much? I think that's why it's weird to me. She cares so much. Meredith said her parents dumped her. I wonder what's with that?'_

The world swirled around him as he tried to slide himself toward the middle of the bed, but Brena assured him it would stop once she helped him get his feet up with the rest of him – and oddly, she was right. She even tilted him forward and helped him change his shirt, though he cringed when she did. Nick craved a shower, but never actually made it into the bathroom with enough bravery to take it, and was convinced he was verging on aromatic. Adding to the awkwardness was the tension he felt over trying to interact with Brena. In all the time he spent on the floor, contemplating his next move, none of those moves included formulating an apology.

"Look...about earlier..." _'This can either fix it or blow up in my face.'_

"Nick, listen to me. Just for a second." Brena's voice was firm, but not unpleasant – a bit like a friend who'd caught you doing the same foolish thing over and over, and simply wanted you to stop beating your head into a wall. "You're not feeling well, and I get the idea that a lot of things outside of here are frustrating you. It's okay. Whatever's going on, it's okay. Don't worry about it."

"Jesus Christ, Brena, you really _are_ -"

"Get some rest, okay? I'll ask a nurse to get you something for your headache. In regular pill form, no worries. I asked Meredith to ease up on you a bit. We talked earlier; she's...very intense. Sometimes I'm not sure how that comes across to other people. Really, she's got a good heart."

Nick's shoulders twitched. "How'd you know I have a headache?"

"You haven't really looked at me, and you keep grabbing your forehead. Pretty sure that's code for, 'I've got a terrible headache.'"

He hadn't realized it, but his eyes were smashed shut, and he had a death-grip just slightly above the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. It's pretty bad." Nick shuffled his feet under the quilt, as though he was searching for comfort. He inhaled sharply, and forced his eyes open. She'd already dimmed his bedside light, and was almost past the end of his curtain, presumably to go ask a nurse for medication. _'Meredith said I needed to stop being a dick to her.'_ Taking a deep breath, Nick scrambled for an idea.

"Does this get easier?"

Slowly, Brena walked back to where she'd been standing and sat her hip against Nick's nightstand. "How do you mean?"

"I...it's..." He went back to crushing his eyes shut and trying to hold his head together with his hands, and Brena turned the bedside light off entirely, the room dropping into complete blackness. "I can get used to the headaches," Nick tried, feeling out the words as he went, "I can get used to the shit with my balance. I went through this before. It's...those things go away, I think. It's not that."

"Is it that you don't feel quite like yourself?"

"I don't _act_ like this. If you asked my friends, they'd say I'm a smartass, but I'm not...like...I don't even remember what I said earlier to you, but it wasn't being a smartass, it was wrong. I thought Meredith was gonna kill me."

"Oh Lord, Meredith," Brena sighed, "Nick, really, I'm sorry she's coming down on you so hard. Deaglan's been here so long that she's...protective, I suppose, is a good word for it. She's Dr. Morgan's principal assistant with the Tau study, too, so she's invested in Deaglan in more ways than one." Nick had tilted his head and was trying to slit his eyes open toward Brena, to force himself to pay attention. "And as for you...for now, you _do_ act like this. Eventually, you'll go back to being yourself. Things change, Nick. Right now, it's not a change you like, but you're in the best place you can be for that." Nick sent up a grumble in protest, so Brena held up her hand to ward off the argument she thought might be coming. "I don't know anything about you, other than what Meredith said, which amounted to, 'Got hit in the head a few times, he's some kind of athlete,' and I'm guessing you're used to taking care of yourself on your own terms. Right now, just until you feel better, let the facility help take care of you. Odds are good you'll be out of here before six months if you do what they're asking you to do."

"I can't," Nick groused, "My company won't let me. It's six months, like it or not."

"Well, you'll like it more without a headache. Let's start there." Brena squeezed Nick's shoulder, her fingers like warm, smooth almonds he could feel through his shirt, and walked out to the nurses' station. Her feet were nearly silent as she left the room, and Nick felt his mind drift while he waited for her to come back.

 _'She's being so...nice...about the headache. I wonder if she'll just stay up and talk to me. I can't sleep, anyway. My shoulder kinda hurts from when I fell, but she has really warm hands. I'm thinking too much. She's gonna sleep in a chair? And what's a Tau study?'_ The light in the room shifted again, and a nurse brought Nick a dose of Tylenol and a small cup of water. He doubted it would do much, but also knew he wasn't getting anything stronger, and so took the medication and tried to look grateful. After the nurse left, Brena closed the door and then moved back to Nick's bedside, bringing a glass of water along with her and turning the bedside light back on, but barely.

"Here. They leave a pitcher by each bed, but you're probably not going to want to be turning that far to pour it."

Nick's hands were massive compared to the tall, narrow glass Brena held out to him – though it fit her grip nicely – and he couldn't help but half-close his over hers when he reached for it. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to touch her, Meredith's warning about keeping his hands to himself banging around in his mind, and he nearly dropped the glass trying to reposition his palms around and away from hers.

"Good grief, Nick, are you alright? Is something else wrong?" Brena slipped one hand under the bottom of the glass and tried to steady it before the water splashed out. "Here. I can hold it for you." She brushed his hands down into his lap, and gently tilted the glass against his lips, waiting for him to sip at the water. "Better? Really, though, Nick, is something else bothering you?"

 _'The glass feels thin. That almond scent has to be lotion – her hands are right by my face. I don't know if I should have touched her or not. That water is freezing – how much ice is in there, anyway? Can you focus, Nemeth? Seriously, concussions don't give you ADHD...do they?'_ Swallowing, then tipping his head back into the pillow, he looked over at Brena. "No. I'm okay, I think. Just...I don't think I can sleep. You didn't have to do all this."

"It's no trouble, Nick. I wasn't sleeping, either."

"Yeah, but you're tired, and you're here all the time, and you got stuck out in the...wherever you went, all day, and that was my fault because I was a dick to you, and-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Nick, stop." Brena's voice barely held down a laugh, tired as she was, and she turned his light off entirely. Nick turned his head toward her even though she was nearly invisible in the dark.

 _'She's like a goddamned ghost, and if she's cracking a hundred pounds – maybe a buck ten – I'd take another kick in the head from Stephen right here and now.'_ Even squinting, he could barely make out her outline against the curtain that half-surrounded his bed. "Sorry, Brena. I just...I'm sorry."

"No, it's not that." Her tone was still light, and Nick suddenly felt like he really _didn't_ have anything to apologize for, but wasn't sure why not. "You're just...you're worried about nothing. I'm not angry with you. Beating yourself up never solved anything, unless you want to make your concussion worse."

"Yeah, but Meredith told me about you, and I shouldn't be a dick to you." _'Oh, shit. Was I supposed to say anything about that?"_

"Oh? Did she, now?" Brena was silent for several seconds; Nick felt something cold crawl up the back of his neck. Whatever magic was in the room with them went out of it and a greasy vacuum was left in its place. "It's late, Nick. You'll feel like a wreck in the morning if you don't try for some sleep." Carefully, she held the glass of water back up to his lips, finding them purely by memory, then brushed an errant piece of hair away from his face when he was finished drinking. Brena patted at Nick's quilt, though it hadn't moved at all, and went back to Deaglan's bedside, creaking into the chair that was next to it.

 _'Yeah, I shouldn't have said anything. Meredith is gonna kill me. I'm taking pills up the ass for six months. Brena was okay with me for a minute and now that's gonna be weird, too. Why do I always have to open my mouth?'_ Nick tried to settle in to his bed, his hand finding its way to the piece of hair Brena had brushed from his face, that nagging, sorrowful, inarticulate tangle of memory still pulling at the hem of his mind.

 _'I wonder what possessed Meredith to do that? Odd. She doesn't care for Nick at all, so that's a strange conversation for her to have. And stranger still, what would she have said?'_ Brena pulled the quilt off the back of the chair and down over herself, trying and failing to find a comfortable position in the stiff-backed chair next to Deaglan's bed. It was stuffed and upholstered, but was as comfortable as cardboard. _'Given his reaction...I doubt it was anything good. Oh, Meredith...the things you do. At least you mean well.'_ Wrapping herself in the quilt as best she could, Brena reached up and squeezed Deaglan's hand, then tucked her chin to her chest and waited for sleep.


	7. Ruination

For a few minutes, Nick held still as death, just listening to Brena breathe. She dropped into sleep quickly; his guess that she was exhausted wasn't off the mark in the least, though he had no idea how she was managing to sleep in the stiff chair that was next to Deaglan's bed. Eventually he trudged toward sleep himself, though he didn't know it would be a short-lived excursion.

A glance at his bedside clock told him, in glaring red numbers, that it was 4:15 in the morning when the door flew open. Brena was awake like a shot; Nick heard her half-trip over her quilt when she rushed to meet the people at the door.

"My favorite late-night visitors!" Brena, despite the deep sleep she'd been startled from, sounded warmly welcoming. "Thank you – though you certainly didn't have to bring me coffee, Dr. Morgan. I'm going to have to start calling your team my personal wake-up squad if this keeps on."

He chuckled, mumbling something about knowing she'd wake up for them anyway and would probably need the coffee, and Nick rolled his eyes – and then wondered why it bothered him that the doctor sounded so familiar with her. He heard Deaglan's bed wheels unlock, and then Brena's voice disappeared down the hall, along with the now-rolling bed.

 _'Ginger. Water. Ghosts. Squad. That's not in order, is it? What happened first, the tag gimmick? Her perfume is from somewhere else – no, something else, like cookies. Stephen is like a ghost. Water is for when you're sick. He talks to her like a husband. That's why it bothers me that she's so nice. The fuck does any of that even make any sense?'_ Nick shook his head, hard, and pulled Brena's quilt up to his face, breathing in her perfume and thinking, trying to organize the single concepts into logical thought.

His mental redecorating brought him back to the time he spent – he felt he spent, anyway – spinning his wheels, shitty gimmick after shitty match after shitty re-branding, getting stuffed into a crate at the end of it all, and what he remembered most about that time was trying _so hard_ to be nice to everyone backstage, to play along and focus on the bigger, better, longer-term picture, hoping against hope it would be enough to turn the tide in his favor, which it wasn't. _'I wanted to be the company guy, smiles for everyone, nothing gets me down, Mister I'll Do Anything For The Team. That shit didn't fly, did it? Nope. Back down to the junior leagues, junior. That was a long time ago, too...why is that on my mind?'_ Meredith's comment about Brena's shoulders crossed his mind, connected to his job in some tangential fashion, maybe even from lifting him up from the floor, and he idly wondered if her problem, whatever it was, was sports-related. _'She's a twig, though. Not un-athletic, but...what would she be up to that would blow out her shoulders?'_

He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, abandoning the quilt, his hands seeking out the glass of water Brena had left nearby. Confronted by another fragment of memory, his mother this time, Nick squeezed his eyes shut. He recalled her bringing water to him when he asked for it at night, usually when he'd wake up after a nightmare or when he was ill, and then staying at his bedside til he fell back to sleep – that memory immediately followed by one of his father reading books to him as a child, the words eventually blending into a fuzzy hum. _'Nice memories. Happy ones, anyway, the ones with my family. The shit with the flips, not so much.'_ Nick winced at the idea of turning a back handspring now, and scrambled to force memories of his old tag gimmick from his mind. _'My family...no, her family sounds like...well...you don't know, Nemeth. Don't assume. Deaglan's important to her, but it doesn't mean she didn't fix shit with her parents, either.'_ Meredith's story left him with more questions than answers, and he wondered if it was deliberate.

Thinking about family led him to thinking about friends, and he decided he'd try to call Claudio in the morning, to try to apologize for being an ass and find out what was going on in the company. _'The company. Ha, right. Gone long enough and they forget all about you. This is gonna be the end of my time. What a waste.'_

Nick winced, again thinking of the time he felt he'd wasted and been wasted once he was sent down, then the mistake he'd made in thinking the wellness policy wasn't taken so seriously or enforced so frequently once he came up to the main roster. That memory was followed by the stomach-churning recollection of fear that he'd absolutely blown his chance almost as soon as it'd been given to him. His mind was spinning so quickly from one vignette to another that he was starting to feel the walls go with it. Hands shaking, he banged the glass of water back onto the nightstand, and then tilted himself over onto his side, dragging the quilt up nearly over his head. _'Slow down, Nick. Slow it down. Concussions don't do this to you. You forget things with concussions, not remember them. What the fuck is this?'_

Breathing shaky, one hand latched firmly onto the siderail of his bed, the other hand grabbing onto both the quilt and the bridge of his nose again, Nick couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He was _remembering_ things he hadn't thought about in years; what would he see if he _looked_? Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he squeezed the bedrail and tried to think of nothing at all. _'The quilt feels soft. It smells nice. Really nice. Ginger. Like the little breakfast muffin thingies my grandma used to make in the morning when we were all there for holidays. Nemeth, what the fuck are you thinking about muffins for? Muffins? Her perfume smells like Christmas cookies. Like the way I remember it from being a kid.'_

Groaning, Nick banged his feet on the mattress, not understanding what trip his brain was taking him on. _'You need to talk to that Morgan guy. Doctor. Doctor Morgan. He talks to Brena all wrong. Her uncle's right there dying and he's bringing her coffee and it's backwards, somehow. It would make sense if she was close to him, but not the other way around.'_

Irritated that the key to his release was held by the doctor now grating on his nerves – and grating them for reasons he couldn't fully articulate – Nick tried to find the off-switch for his mood instead, knowing he needed to stuff down the wild swings before his breathing turned to gasping. However, poking at the inner stuffing of his mind only led it to further fray apart. _'When was the last time you felt this shitty? Every time you've had a concussion, that's when. Maybe it really is that bad. Why is Brena being so...nice? Taking care of me? Whatever she's doing. She really is busy enough with Deaglan, so I don't get it. I don't mind it, but I don't get it.'_ His mind rolodexed through a litany of girlfriends, college and beyond, all of them doing just-enough-but-not-really to take care of him when he trained, performed, was injured...but mostly leaving him to his own devices, to try to manage things on his own. _'Alone. Which was okay to a point, because, yeah, alone...I could do my own thing...but it's really nice when she comes over here and fixes the curtains, too.'_

* * *

"I wish you'd tell me what's going on. It's really not the headache, is it?"

Nick, balled up on his side, hadn't heard Brena come back to the room. He jolted from his thoughts, which was probably just as well. _'What do I tell her? 'Hi, I'm usually a horrible person to you, I don't understand why you even talk to me, I'm remembering random things that don't make sense, and Tylenol is a shitty painkiller.'? Yeah, that'll work. Great answer.'_ "No. I mean, yeah. I don't know. I don't feel good."

"Can I get you anything?"

"It's four in the fucking morning, Brena. What is there to get?"

Nick was back to sounding harsh, but coming from behind a bunched-up mountain of quilt while curled on his side, neon-blond hair akimbo, Brena half-expected to see him sucking his thumb and snarling at her around it like an absurd Disney character. She couldn't resist half a smile at the mental image, even though she knew he was miserable. "It's closer to 4:30, Nick." She leaned over the bedrail and rested her hand on his shoulder again. "Really. Something's off with you. Deaglan's out for a blood draw, so I've got a few minutes, and you said you couldn't sleep anyway."

"So? What are you asking me?"

Brena paused, considering her next words carefully. "I guess...I'm not really asking you anything. Maybe if you wanted to talk?" She shook her head. "Let me stop. Really, you need to rest. I forget that not everyone keeps my crazy hours."

Nick hadn't realized how tight his shoulder was until the heat from her hand was soaking through it, and even without any pressure at all, he could feel the tension unwind itself. _'That's really nice. Way better than that shitty massage therapist the company hired after th- Nick, stop. Again, why are you even thinking about that shit?'_ He shivered convulsively, suddenly worried about how much of his mind had shaken loose, given how much was now floating out of it in a completely nonsensical fashion. Suddenly, the shivering wouldn't stop, his body an overflowing nest of raw nerves and anxieties, the fear that he wouldn't be able to keep any thoughts in, never mind keeping the intrusive ones away, so great that it became physical. Even his teeth chattered, and his jaw ached from the effort of trying to hold them still.

Pulling gently at his shoulder, Brena dropped the bedrail and sat on the edge of Nick's bed, her eyebrows knit together and her lips pursed in a way that indicated there were a thousand answers she wouldn't be satisfied with if he offered them after she spoke.

"Nick... _is_ something going on?"

His headache was stabbing, splintering apart the beams and braces of his mind, tufts of memory floating down into the open spaces like fluffy chunks of insulation from a long-neglected attic. He met Brena's eyes, but his were completely vacant, and he felt it took him ages to focus on her face.

Choking, whispering, Nick false-started several times before he managed an answer to her question. "I think I really need to be here, Brena." _'What the everloving fuck is going on with me? Concussions don't make you crazy, do they? I really did it this time. I really, really fucked up. There's no fixing this.'_

With one hand still gently on his shoulder, she reached behind herself for his glass and offered him water again. His voice sounded tight, and whether that was from effort or dehydration, she wasn't sure. His teeth rattled against the edge of the glass when he drank, and she winced.

"I think you're right, Nick. But, that's okay. You're going to be cared for."

* * *

Welcome ZombieTKBaha and AWrestlingGod! Thank you for the kind reviews. :)


	8. Hell Is Empty, All The Devils Are Here

It's a double-update! Much love to all of my readers, reviewers, and silent lurkers :-*

Well, except one of you. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, JERK!

(jk. seriously, tho, i love you all.)

* * *

It didn't take much to get started, which surprised him – some paperwork, some consent forms, and a phone call from the hospital to corporate headquarters. Nick hated to admit it, was pained by the truth of it, but the high-speed spin cycle his brain went on convinced him he had to stay at Magee until his mind settled down. He picked his way through breakfast, and marveled at Brena's ability to remain functional and upright on only a few hours' sleep and zero food. Normally, he would have been grousing about starving to death, but it was all he could do to try and choke down two slices of toast. Nick kept his eyes on the door, waiting for Dr. Morgan to reappear, trying to figure out a good way to not appear over-eager about starting the process of unscrambling his brain. _'Or Brena._ _When_ _she comes back, maybe she can_ _tell me what's_ _coming_ _next_ _.'_

* * *

Brena sat with Nick and simply listened to him talk, after he blurted out his admission that he needed help. Perched on the edge of his bed, she hovered like a seraph, spine straight and shoulders back, as though she was protecting him from something. She looked over her shoulder at every noise that came from the hall – a gesture that he first thought meant she was more focused on Deaglan coming back to the room than on anything he was saying – but he came to understand it had more to do with him, once she explained the lab would call the room when she was needed. _'I dunno what she's looking for, but if it makes her feel better...whatever works. She's between me and the door. That's a good thing, I think. I need to be here.'_

Their conversation was largely about him – she had no idea who he was. It didn't surprise Nick, given that she'd spent so much time – most of the past four years – locked away in hospitals and doctor's offices with Deaglan, plus whatever time she'd spent at Hazel's side. Nick managed to get that much out of her, but she always steered the topic away from herself. He tried to explain the WWE as best he could, but articulating what exactly it was that he did for a living became complicated as he delved further into his career path within the company. 'Flip around in my underwear' wasn't inaccurate, but it left a lot to be desired as far as answers went. He opted to explain it like a circus, minus the animals and plus lots of speech-making, then add a dash of real-life peril. Brena seemed amused at the whole thing, and she smiled throughout his meandering description. Usually, Nick had no trouble explaining his work to people – part performer, part athlete, throw in explosions and theatrics and some actual danger – but with Brena, he was vaguely self-conscious.

 _'She's so...put together? Composed? She has more important things to worry about, but she's worried about me anyway.'_ Nick rolled his eyes at himself – he wasn't embarrassed about his work; it had given him so many stage and publicity opportunities – but he was annoyed at his sudden tongue-tie and Brena's ability to disarm him. She asked gentle questions – nothing too technical – and seemed interested in his answers. Her focus was completely on him, and as much as he wanted her to explain everything Meredith said, he was also enjoying the attention. _'It's kinda fun to just...be excited...about work. To not think of it like work. I still feel dumb talking about it, but she really seems in to it.'_ Nick was more used to conversations that were of the shrieking-fangirl or aggressive-disbeliever variety; to have someone ask him logical questions and show an actual interest was different. _'Even trolling a bar – chicks would talk to me because of...well, okay, because I look good. But...that's all because of my job. They wanted to get laid, but they didn't really care what I said.'_ Nick's mind wandered mid-conversation, even mid-sentence, and he couldn't help but laugh. _'I wonder what shit I could have pulled, and still gone home with someone? Pour a drink in some chick's purse? Pass my bar tab to some random and expect her to pay it? Tell a girl she's a three out of ten and wait for the comedy gold?'_

"What's funny?" Brena's face was still placid, but she arched an eyebrow, trying to be in on the joke.

"Huh?" Nick shook his head, regretted it, and shook it again. "No, uh...nothing. I was talking to you, and then it was like I was having a whole other conversation with myself."

"Yeah, you _might_ need to be here." Brena winked dramatically, and Nick couldn't resist a smile.

"Pudding for brains, don't remind me. Y'know, my mom used to make this amazing chocolate pudding when I was a kid, and she'd put these little Oreo pieces on top of it – I can't think of what she called it, muddy something-or-other – and – wait. What were we talking about?"

Brena smiled gently, not wanting to worry Nick. To her, the illogical trains of thought were completely normal; Brena bounced easily from conversations with other residents and patients who were impaired to various degrees to conversations with the hospital's medical professionals, then to talking to herself when she was with Deaglan. She was more than able to snap from ramblings about people she'd never met and events she'd never been to back into proper conversation. _'Honestly...he could talk about the floor tile and I'd be happy with it. It's so quiet when nobody else is here. You can only talk to yourself so much in one day, though none of that is Deaglan's fault. He'd answer me if he could. I need to stop sounding so bitter; it's unbecoming.'_

"Your job, Nick. Where you work."

"Right. Uh, right." Nick rubbed at the back of his neck, trying not to show he was as concerned as he felt. "Is that...normal?"

"The way you were talking about work? Yes, perfectly normal. You mean the rest of it?" Brena reached for one of his hands, completely on impulse, and was unsurprised to find it clammy. "No, it's not normal. You've got a tremendous flight of ideas. You're talking about all of them logically, so there's one good thing. Plus, your mood is improved, though I think that's more to do with acceptance and less to do with injury." Nick furrowed his brows, but Brena continued, unfazed.

"Don't borrow trouble, Nick. I'm not the doctor, but...Deaglan's had quite a few roommates who had brain trauma from impacts. Car accidents, sports injuries, things like that. Generally, the harder they were hit, the more flighty they were at first." She squeezed his hand, trying to keep his attention on her. "But, the good thing is, I can tell you every single one of them left here better than when they came in."

"Better like, 'One hundred percent fixed,' or like, 'Well, this is as good as it's going to get.'?" _'She's so bony. I can feel her knuckles_ _grinding_ _. Maybe if I see Meredith, I can ask her...no. Leave Meredith alone.'_ Nick hadn't applied any reciprocal pressure to Brena's hand, but just the act of her bending her own fingers around his highlighted how rickety she was.

"Both. Some of the people were hurt badly." Nick cringed, but Brena continued, trying to calm him. "Nick...you didn't come in here like that. I'm talking about people who came in nearly comatose. Non-verbal. Not able to move, see, that sort of thing. You started out leaps and bounds ahead of that." Cautiously, Nick met Brena's eyes, and she offered him a hint of a smile. "Give this a chance before you decide you can't be salvaged. You never know."

There was a peaceful silence between them after she spoke, with Nick taking the time to mull over Brena's words. He jumped when the phone on Deaglan's side of the room rang, and Brena let go of his hand before getting up to answer it. A brief conversation later, and she hung up and was out the door without another word to him.

 _'Weird – she didn't say goodbye? I mean, not like she owes me, and not like she's not coming back, but she's so fucking polite about everything.'_ He realized, after a few minutes' thought, that the phone call likely had something to do with Deaglan, and if Brena had forgotten her manners in favor of urgency then something also likely had gone wrong. Nick felt an odd wash of worry come over him, but pushed it down, suddenly irked that his hand was cold and he was aware of it.

* * *

Deaglan had thrashed around during his blood draw, the end result being that he'd caused a fairly significant amount of damage to his arm. The phlebotomist was hysterical; Dr. Morgan had already torn her apart and put her back together by the time Brena got there, and she could tell the woman had been crying. Deaglan, for his part, was sitting quietly in his bed, his arm wrapped heavily in gauze. Brena sighed, trying to reassure the phlebotomist she'd done nothing wrong, and brushing off Dr. Morgan's apologies.

"Uncle Deaglan, what are we going to do with you?" Brena leaned in to hug her uncle, and while he did reach up to embrace her in return, it lacked enthusiasm. She held him by the shoulders and tilted him back, trying to read his face for an expression. "Hm. Something's off with you, Uncle D. Any hints?" She puzzled down at him, but his eyes were blank.

"Hazel? Hazel!" Deglan's voice was hollow, and Brena cringed to think that Deaglan had confused her with her dead aunt.

"It's okay, Uncle D. Let's wait here til we're sure your arm is okay, then we'll go back to the room. Maybe today is a good day for the photo albums. It sounds like you're missing your lady."

Dr. Morgan had stood back quietly, but there was something empty in Brena's voice that made him want to fill the space. "Brena, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that this happened. His arm will be fine, we caught the bleeding in time and there wont' be any permanent damage – it just looks awful right now. At a minimum, she," Dr. Morgan waved his hand dismissively at the phlebotomist, who physically flinched as he did so, "Is going to be sent for retraining, and-"

"Don't worry about it, Dr. Morgan. I think Deaglan's not in the mood for this, today, and this is getting him off of his routine. Once he gets back to the room and gets his coffee and breakfast, he'll be fine. It's..." Brena trailed off, and for a fraction of a second, something close to sadness almost registered on her face. "It's just getting harder for him. It's nothing you did."

"We'll do future blood draws in the room. Really, I don't know why we weren't doing that in the first place. There's no need to change his environment just for this."

Brena waved his concern away, her hand like a tiny, ghostly bramble. "Let's see how he does today. Let's just keep it a low-key day, if we can. This might be a one-time outburst, and I'd hate for him to be stuck in the room more than he already is."

Dr. Morgan snorted. "Low-key? That, Brena, depends on your roommate. And he is hardly low-key."

Brena smiled, a watery expression, but her face suddenly read with more hope than it had in moments prior. "You'd be surprised, Dr. Morgan. I think, today, you'd be surprised."

* * *

Forms signed and filed, Dr. Morgan nearly dropping his clipboard in shock, Nick was told he'd be doing tests and labwork straight through til lunch. Brena had returned to the room long enough to help Deaglan through his breakfast, but he'd dropped off to sleep right after, and she'd disappeared not long after that. Something had gone wrong; Deaglan came back with his arm heavily wrapped, and Brena's mood seemed to have closed around her.

 _'That explains why she ran off. Should I ask her what happened, or...nah. She shot me down every other time I asked about her or her uncle. Not my business.'_ Nick, long since having given up on his toast, had debated whether or not to ask Brena if she'd mind putting on a pot of coffee, but she'd left too quickly after Deaglan's breakfast for anything to be done.

Meredith came in to get Nick, trying desperately not to dissolve into laughter. She wasn't amused about Deaglan; in fact, she'd taken the phlebotomist aside and started her crying all over again, using far more vitriol and far less professionalism than Dr. Morgan had. Now, though, she was ready to rub Nick's nose in the fact that he had buckled after all and would be staying for six months.

"Is she okay?"

Meredith stopped up well short of Nick's bed, positively confused, her near-laugh curdling into a pucker. "Since when do you give two shits about anyone other than yourself?" _'Don't start, jackwad. I'm not giving your fake-sympathetic ass any details to hit her with.'_

 _'I don't know when, Meredith, but I care now. How about that, eh? That's the actual answer, but I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction.'_ Nick glared at her, but stayed silent and let his question hang in the air.

Surprised that he lacked a retort, Meredith squinted at him and rethought her position. "Alright, alright. No, I don't know if she's okay. She's upset about Deaglan, and so am I. Usually, she goes to the PT room to deal with it."

"The...hm...okay. What's in there?"

"Talk to her about it."

Nick swung his feet out of the bed, squeezing his fingers open and closed on the hand that Brena held earlier. "You really are a bitch, you know that?"

"Nah," Meredith snorted, "I just think you're an asshole."

* * *

By the time Nick was done with the morning's battery of tests, he was ready to throw up. Everything that the doctors and trainers at the WWE had done to him had been done again, in spades, but by trained neurologists. There was no faking his way out of anything; Nick tried once or twice, thinking he could improve his chances of getting out before six months, but had been blocked at every turn. _'Trained in the fine art of making you want to puke up your spleen. Whatever they're diagnosing, this better be worth it,_ _because I feel like I could die_ _.'_ Lunch came in, and Nick dry-heaved at the idea of a tuna salad sandwich. Shoving the tray away, he crossed his fingers for better luck at dinner and stared morosely out the window. Across the room, Deaglan watched him and occasionally grunted, but Brena was nowhere to be found.

"And where's your girl, Deaglan?" Nick had no other way of occupying his time; Deaglan would at least listen and not interrupt. "She booked it out of here like you were on fire. You look mostly okay, though, so I guess she didn't have to worry too much, huh? Not like your arm is gonna fall off – but I think I got the same lab tech you had. My arm is a giant fucking bruise." _'And I'm half-convinced it was payback. At least I didn't pass out.'_

Deaglan cocked his head toward Nick, but remained silent, so Nick continued. "Man, I wish you'd talk. Maybe you could help me figure her out." Nick closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillow; the ginger smell had faded somewhat, and he turned his head to and fro trying to pick up Brena's perfume. "She bugs the hell out of me, you know that? Not in a bad way, I guess, but still. I don't get her. Like, there's nothing _wrong_ with her, but she's just so... _nice_. She get that from you? Your wife?" Nick shrugged. "I mean, it doesn't matter. It's nice that she's nice. I just...it's weird, you know?" Deaglan grunted, loudly, which gave Nick pause. "No, don't get all pissy. I don't mean weird-bad. I mean weird like...I don't know anything about her. Or about you. But I don't know how to ask her anything, either, you know? She does some Mona Lisa shit and then it's like I was never trying to talk to her. She puts it all back on me."

Another grunt from Deaglan, this time lighter and almost understanding, and Nick sighed, then half-smiled. "Nah, I'm not complaining. Well, you didn't say I was complaining, but you know what I mean. Was she always like that? Like, more about everyone else than about herself? It's strange to be around someone who doesn't want to talk about themselves. Not strange in a bad way, don't get cranky. It's just...different. She's different."

Rushing into the room with two styrofoam lunchboxes in hand, Brena was sweaty when she arrived, and she practically vaulted herself at Deaglan's bed. "Uncle Deaglan, I'm so sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. I didn't mean to be late. You weren't waiting long, were you?" She was nearly panting, and for once, not draped in a hoodie. Instead, her tank top clung to her, patchy and moist, and she was in a legging-and-shorts combination that reminded Nick of some of the things he'd seen Danielle and Catherine warm up in. Her hair was damp and her cheeks were a ruddy pink, as though she'd been in the middle of a cardio circuit when she realized it was time for lunch. Cutting Deaglan's sandwich into quarters, pouring his juice into a styrofoam cup, Brena's shoulders bowed and flexed due to the odd angle she used to lean over the bed.

 _'She said something about her shoulders right when I got here. What was it?'_ Her shoulders looked no more or less different than he expected them to be, but suddenly one wrenched and offered up a wet-sounding crack as she moved. Brena nearly dropped Deaglan's fork, hissing while she reorganized herself and walked fully around the bed, abandoning her awkward position in favor of something more functional.

"That'll teach me," she mumbled, "I knew I overdid it. Uncle D, one of these days I'm going to listen to you."

Nick was about to ask her what was going on and if Deaglan was okay, but his bedside phone rang. The sound drilled into his ears, almost made his teeth ache, and he snatched the receiver from the base.

"Uh, hel-"

"Nemeth, y'asshole, tell me why I gotta call ya about this concussion shit?"

It took Nick a second, but he was finally able to place Stephen's voice. "Fuck if I know, Stephen, why _are_ you calling me?" _'Thanks for letting me say hello. I'm glad you can manage to make me look like an asshole even when I'm_ not _trying to be one. Asshole.'_

"Talent Relations didn't like that we weren't 'relating' well, so here I am on the line. They only said I had t'call, so I'm not tellin' ya I'm sorry."

"The fuck I expected you to. If you're too dumb to see when my hand was hung up, too dumb to aim a high boot the right way, and too dumb to not oversell stiff at the pay per view, then I know you're gonna be too dumb to offer up an apology. I know 'potato' applies because you're Irish, but you didn't have to _intentionally_ work me over."

Across the room, Brena laughed, unable to resist repeating 'Irish potato' out loud. Nick pulled a face in her general direction, but couldn't help himself from smiling – an expression Brena warmly reciprocated.

"Who's that?"

"My roommate. Er, his daughter."

"I didn't realize head injuries came with girls who sound pretty laughing."

"She doesn't sound like _anything_ , Stephen. She's not talking to you." Nick's smile fell from his face; something was off-kilter in Stephen's tone. _'Like Dr. Morgan, but at least he's got a reason to be over-familiar. Stephen, no. That's so far beyond wrong it's just fucked up.'_

"Aye, but she will be if I visit. That was next on Talent Relations' list, y'know, concussion awareness and such. They're thinking a big promotional type o'thing between the two of us. Besides," Stephen's voice adopted a smarmy edge as he continued, "Why ya so defensive, Nicky?" He laughed, a booming, explosive sound, and Nick pulled the receiver away from his ear. "Really, man, why so bitchy? _Is_ she pretty? Nice ass? Don't tell me ya haven't looked. Used ta be, you'd jump on anything that made eye contact."

"Trust me, your snowy white ass is _not_ nice _or_ on my visitor's list." The effort of holding a conversation with Stephen was starting to overwhelm Nick, and the room was beginning to slide down to the left. "Can I go now, or do I need to keep listening to you not apologize to me?"

"I'll just have to come up and apologize in person. For the good o'the company, y'know." The slime in Stephen's voice oozed through the phone, and Nick hung up on him, immediately having a sinking feeling that he'd somehow created a problem for himself.

 _'Or for Brena. Figures, she picks NOW to be chatty and he has to pick up on it.'_ Nick's frown deepened, and it wasn't lost on Brena.

"Irish potatoes?" Brena's voice cut into his thoughts. _"_ _Another bad phone call? It makes me wonder if he ever gets any good news. People around him seem so..._ _hard on him_ _._ _He looks so frustrated._ _'_

"Yeah. Sorry about that, it probably wasn't PC."

"We Irish haven't met a potato we didn't love, Nick. It was funny."

 _'Of course she's Irish. Deaglan and Brena. Hazel doesn't fit, though. Wonder where she was from?'_ They were both quiet, but it was pleasant. Nick was relieved he was amusing and not offensive, that he was still able to be witty when the situation called for it. Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed Brena walk over to him until she was next to his bed, pulling his lunch tray and sandwich away. "Uh, whatcha doing? I'm not gonna eat it, but..."

"Here, trade you. Mine is grilled chicken. I can suffer tuna; you look like you're about to cry if you have to keep staring at that sandwich. You'll get better meals if you go down to the cafeteria, just so you know. I used to take Deaglan all the time, but lately he does better if he eats in here." She chuckled. "Oh, and listen to me, I'm rambling. If you haven't walked through the building yet, though, you should. There's quite a bit going on here; you might actually like some of it. I won't tell anyone if you do, though – you've got appearances to maintain." Brena's smile was persistent, even as she teased Nick, and he was strangely glad for it.

Opening the styrofoam box, Nick groaned in delight. The chicken looked delicious, and she hadn't given the sandwich a bath in anything other than lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes. _'Minus mayo. Thank fuck. And she even does her coffee right. This might actually help my headache. And that whole being-hungry thing.'_ The sides were inoffensive, the juice was cold, and his stomach sent up a happy growl.

"...I really didn't mean to be rude."

Lettuce dangling from his mouth, Nick swiveled his head toward Brena, trying to catch up to her conversation. "Muh, whanf?" _'Or I could try chewing before talking. Conversational plus, Nemeth.'_

Brena passed him a napkin, and continued. "I mean, from earlier. When I just ran out of the room. I felt I was being rude; I could have said I had to leave instead of just taking off when you were talking to me." She blotted at the back of her neck with a napkin, still sweaty, but more focused on the two men in the room than herself – her action seemed like an afterthought, nearly mechanical.

"You're seriously apologizing to _me_?" More composed and with less in his mouth, Nick looked at Brena like she'd grown a second head. "Uh, you clearly had some shit to deal with. I'm gonna be here, collecting dust, for the next six months. It's not a big deal if you have to step off."

"Sorry. I just thought I should apologize."

"And then apologize for apologizing? You sound like me from last night." Nick continued shoveling the sandwich into his mouth, his stomach calming somewhat with the conversation and the meal. "But," He reached around himself for his glass of water, though Brena beat him to it and handed it to him before he rotated fully, "Where _did_ you disappear to? You're, uh...sweaty?"

Brena cringed and rushed back to Deaglan's bedside after she was sure Nick had a solid hold on his glass, taking her hoodie up off the foot of it and slipping it over her head. Given its length, her shorts disappeared underneath it and she looked like she was wearing only that and leggings.

 _'Nemeth, keep it PG. Be appropriate.'_ "I mean, you don't have to tell me," He continued, "I'm basically being nosy. Meredith wouldn't tell me, either."

"Eh...just down to the PT room. Sometimes..." Brena sighed, and Nick felt guilty that he'd even asked. "Sometimes, I get a little nervous about Deaglan. Lately, he's...not doing poorly, but he's not quite himself. I know the Alzheimer's is going to advance, so there's that, but sometimes I worry the tests and labs and things for the study are aggravating to him."

"Okay, there's the other thing."

"Other thing, Nick?" Brena looked confused. Her lunch tray still sat unopened, though she continued to work Deaglan through his meal. "I don't follow you."

"The PT room, first." He rotated as much as he could in bed, and sent up a silent prayer that Meredith would take her sweet time in coming back to the room to get him for the second half of his day of testing. "Then...tell me about this study? Rho, or Tau, or whatever you said it was."

Brena shook her head – not as a negative gesture, but almost as though she was confused. "You're actually interested?" Nick nodded, and Brena's look of confusion changed to one of surprise. "Huh, fancy that. Most people don't really care to discuss brain chemistry. Let me think about how to explain it..it honestly takes me a while to put it together in a way that makes sense, and I'm pretty sure you've had your fill of deep thinking for the day."

"You flatter him, Brena," Meredith cut in from the doorway, "And calling it _thinking_ is generous. The tests are pass/fail, and he wasn't exactly valedictorian. Up off the bed, Mr. Nemeth, you have more labs to get to."

Knowing the second half of his tests had to be done, and knowing further that he wouldn't be able to buy a reprieve from them by appealing to Meredith's good nature – if she had one – Nick tried to slide his feet to the floor. The ground suddenly shimmered away from him, the healing properties of his sandwich be damned. _'Probably should have had more for breakfast. Probably a bad idea to have a blood draw on an empty stomach. Probably gonna actually die, now.'_ Brena was over to his side like a shot, managing to stab him under the arm with her thumb, but preventing him from outright crumpling, Meredith not far behind her.

"Mer, have the labs come to him. Please? I think he's had enough for one day." Brena guided Nick back against the side of the bed, trying to steady him. Nick was working not to throw up, knowing he wouldn't be as lucky with his aim as he was when he near-vomited on Claudio.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bren, he can make it."

"He probably can, Meredith. But..." Brena looked back at Deaglan, who had nodded off with his napkin still tucked into his shirt, his arm still thick with gauze wrap from that morning's accident, "But I'd feel better if they both had an easier time of things. They didn't ask for this."

Meredith's eyes bounced from Deaglan to Nick and back again before she sighed. "No, Brena. No, they didn't." She reached for Deaglan's bedside phone and dialed the lab. "Let's just hope Nick doesn't need another blood draw. That phlebotomist isn't exactly batting a thousand, today."

Brena stood in front of Nick, concerned that he'd gone grey in the face and only half -listening to Meredith as she talked to the lab technician who answered the phone. "Sit back, Nick. Slow breathing, and sit back. You look like you're about to pass out." She brushed his hair back from his face, trying to catch his eyes and distract him from how awful he likely felt. "You're going to have to tell me why on earth you did this to your hair. It suits you, but your roots are just atrocious."

Trying to focus on the conversation and not the roiling discomfort in his stomach, Nick swallowed at the air and tried for a retort. "Says the woman who dyes hers jet-blue-black? I don't think so."

"Nope. Natural hair color. I promise, not all the Irish are gingers dancing around a clover field full of sunburned leprechauns."

Snorting and smiling, but still breathing far too heavily to be healthy, Nick helped Brena ease him back up into his bed. "You get the hair story if I get the Tau story."

"Deal. But, after your labs. Meredith would have both our heads, otherwise."

Ever the opportunist, Nick couldn't resist a swipe at Brena's friend. "Nah. Meredith kinda has a _thing_ with me. We're good."

"Oh, no, Prince Blondie," Meredith, standing next to Deaglan's bed, had her arms crossed and was holding the phone's receiver like a bludgeon, "You and I most definitely do _not_ have a _good_ thing."


	9. Table Manners

For everywillow who's wanted to know more about the study... I LOVE YOU!

* * *

Tests long since done and an actual plan in place – one which even included showers – Nick settled into somewhat of a routine at Magee. The time was both easy and difficult; Brena made the space tolerable simply by being present. Even Deaglan helped keep things in order for Nick. More and more frequently, he found himself talking to Brena's uncle, knowing he wouldn't ever be getting a response, but pleased nonetheless that he had a receptive audience to his thoughts. _'Sometimes, just being able to say things helps. And it's not like he's gonna tell anyone when I'm bored or confused or miserable. Or...lonely. That one's the weird one.'_

Loneliness was the one emotion Nick couldn't shuffle back into place. Deaglan was nearly always around; by virtue of that, Brena was nearly always available to Nick for conversation. More often than not, she simply sat and listened, asking the occasional question or offering up a comment. Try as he might, Nick couldn't get anything much out of her about herself, and Meredith – no matter how he needled at her – refused to fill in the blanks that she'd created.

The only time Nick had come close to getting Brena to talk about herself was the afternoon when she asked Meredith to move his labs into his room, rather than drag him all over the building. While he waited, with Deaglan sleeping and Brena perched on the edge of his bed, Nick coaxed her into talking about the Tau study, though she dodged every attempt he made at getting her to explain what she was doing in the PT room. Every so often, Brena's shoulders would pop or crack, she'd wince or adjust them, and ignore his pointed looks at her joints.

The study, however, made much more sense to Nick after they talked – it horrified him, it gave him hope, and it broke his heart, but he now had his answers on that front. Brena never did fully explain how she found out Deaglan had Alzheimer's – _'Something else Meredith started and didn't finish. One of those clues of hers, or facts, but fuck if I know what the actual story is.' –_ but once she did know, Deaglan made quick arrangements to bring some good out of the situation. They'd both watched Hazel die immediately before Deaglan's diagnosis; the knowledge that he would linger in a blank mental netherworld for an indeterminate amount of time was strangely motivating to him in terms of creating a plan.

* * *

" _One of his favorite things was – is – cail. It's complicated to explain, but suffice it to say, it's a high-contact sport. That, and rugby. Deaglan got his diagnosis right as the general –you know, national – awareness of concussions and head injury was increasing; parents complaining about hard impacts in school football games, professional football players killing themselves and doctors finding, upon autopsy, that their brains were riddled with knotted proteins and ruined neurons. Things like that. When Deaglan could, when he was able to understand it, he researched his disease."_

 _"So it wasn't all at once? The...stuff with his memory, I mean."_

" _No, not at all. He sort of...slid into forgetfulness. Misplaced medications, lost keys, checking and re-checking the locks on the doors because he wasn't convinced he'd actually turned them, not paying the bills, things like that. Once his doctor told him what the actual issue was, he threw himself into reading about it. He said he wanted to understand it while he still could."_

" _Okay, but I don't follow – maybe I'm dumb – but what does football and his Alzheimer's have to do with me?" Nick tried rolling the pieces around in his mind, but got nowhere._

" _The proteins and neuron damage that were being talked about in the news, with the football players who killed themselves – it's nearly identical to the type of damage in the brain that's cause by Alzheimer's. The brains of the athletes had high Tau levels, just like an Alzheimer's patient would. The damage wasn't caused by the same thing - one was environmental, the other organic - but it all looked the same under a microscope. Deaglan picked up on the connection, and decided that even if he wouldn't know about it at the end, he should try to do something to help his team. After Hazel died, he...wanted to do something good. He didn't want his diagnosis to be a negative thing."_

" _So...he's donating his brain to this study?" Nick cringed; there was no delicate way to ask the question. 'And you only donate a brain if you're dead. Not good.'_

" _More than that," Brena continued, picking at the threads holding Nick's quilt together, "Deaglan is the study. Dr. Morgan is using his Tau levels, his MRI results, and eventually his brain, to try to track the damage that Tau indicates...or causes. If he can figure out what causes the Tau to form, or where the tipping point is, where the damage is irreversible, then he feels he might be able to better help people with brain injury from impacts."_

There, Meredith finally did make sense. Deaglan's brain was the key to Nick's brain, and his continued functionality. With Deaglan's ability to generate data simply by existing, Dr. Morgan might be able to develop treatment plans, or submit his research to a pharmaceutical company for drug development, and thus, brain injuries like Nick's might not have to end in an early death by suicide. He might be able to preserve his memories and not go through what Deaglan was experiencing. Nick tried hard not to think about the fact that Deaglan ultimately had to die for the study to be successfully completed – that shook him apart in ways he didn't have words for.

* * *

Oddly, his concern for Brena shook him in the same way. After so many days, Nick was so used to seeing lab technicians that he almost didn't notice the man waiting patiently in the doorway, presumably for him to respond to what was likely a question. As she had so many times before, Brena collected the lunch trays from the room and prepared to wander back down to the cafeteria to dispose of them – her sandwich still sat untouched. He noticed, but said nothing, though Meredith called out to Brena from the nurse's station and chided her for not eating. She apologized; Nick could hear her make half a promise to have dinner, but he knew it was unlikely she'd actually eat.

"Make yourself useful, Blondie," Meredith said, walking purposefully into the room and slapping Nick's foot under the quilt once Brena was fully out of sight, "Try to get your ass down to the cafeteria tonight, and take her with you."

"Uh, maybe you haven't noticed, but she's glued to Deaglan 24-7, and he doesn't go to the cafeteria to eat. She said he doesn't do well down there, that there's too many people around." Nick couldn't help the acidity in his voice – he was no less concerned about Brena, who by his count had missed two meals that day – but had no idea what to do about it, or why Meredith expected him to do anything at all. The pile of symptom-surveys currently cluttering his overbed tray wasn't helping things; the technician had dropped them off and said he'd be back in an hour to collect them. _'And if this is timed for a reason and you're slowing me down, I'm gonna be stuck here longer. You need to can it, chick. I'm trying to get through this.'_

Meredith pulled his table away, with Nick drawing a dark line down one page and nearly putting his pencil through Brena's quilt when his arm dropped. "No shit, Sherlock. But you know as well as I do that she skipped breakfast and lunch, and if she sits in here, all she's going to do is feed Deaglan and _not_ herself." Nick furrowed his brows, but couldn't follow Meredith any further than where she stopped talking. "Oh, good Lord, maybe you really _did_ get clipped in the head that hard. Nick, think. You _still_ haven't been to the cafeteria, yet, though trust me – nobody gives two shits who you are. Have her show you where it is and see if you can get her to eat something. She's going to pass out, otherwise. I'll cancel your supper tray, and when it doesn't show up, go down there with her." Meredith slapped his foot again. "You follow me?"

"Kinda," Nick mumbled, "But I thought you wanted me to leave her alone?"

"You agreed to the tests, to staying here, and it's been a couple of weeks. That counts for something. Maybe you're mellowing." Meredith rolled her eyes at Nick's dirty look. "Honestly, though...I haven't seen her have that much conversation with anyone other than me...well, ever. Maybe Dr. Morgan. Otherwise, she just talks to Deaglan. For whatever reason, she seems to enjoy your company, though it's gonna take me a month to figure that one out."

"Fine. But if dinner sucks, I'm coming after you."

Meredith roared with laughter. "Oh, please. Half the time you can't get out of bed without falling over your own two feet. I don't think I've got much to worry about." Her hand traveled to his ankle, and her grip tightened. "Just _try_ , Nick."

* * *

Meredith kept her word, canceling Nick's tray for the evening. Brena brought Deaglan back to the room at dinner, and Nick watched her as she fed him, working a fork through the lasagna, making sure his glass of water was constantly full, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin – beyond attentive, and completely unconcerned with herself. Brena's stomach sent up more than a few growls, but she seemed to ignore them.

"You're smiling at something again."

Nick hadn't realized the expression had crept up on his face, and felt heat across his cheeks when Brena pointed it out. "Wh...uh..." He was caught, and he knew it – and he lacked a graceful explanation. "Uh...yeah. Yeah, I was. Am. Sorry."

"Anything on your mind?" _'Clearly something's on your mind. Maybe you've finally got some good news?'_

 _'How do you constantly have the patience for him, and the tolerance for me being dumb? You make this shit look easy, and it can't be. I feel like shit, so I can't even imagine what he feels like. Or what you feel like.'_

"I...yeah. It's complicated."

Brena nodded, but said nothing. Deaglan was starting to look drowsy, so she moved on to his ice cream before it became soupy. "Hey, uh, Brena? I think my dinner order got screwed up. Nobody brought anything."

"I'm beginning to think my name is 'Heyabrena,' Nick," She teased, then checked her watch and offered up a sympathetic smile, "It's after delivery time for trays, so you probably wouldn't want it now, anyway. Once they get cold, they're not so good. The cafeteria's open for another hour and a half, though, and there's always a spread. Almost anything you can think of."

 _'There! Meredith can't say I didn't try, now. She's the type to actually make good on that threat with the pills.'_ "Believe it or not, I still haven't been down there. I was gonna go with Claudio for lunch – he's coming in a few days – but I have no clue where it actually is."

"Make a right out of the room and go down to the third hallway. You make a left there, and go straight to the end." _'He's been here almost two weeks and hasn't left the room for food? Odd. I wonder what's keeping him? Though, he said he's an athlete, maybe he doesn't want to be recognized and bothered.'_ Brena snorted at her own illogical thinking; sad as it was, the odds of someone actually recognizing Nick were slim. Head injuries and brain trauma had a way of making even familiar faces smear into hazy thoughts of, 'Gee, don't I know you from somewhere?'

"Okay, now _you're_ laughing to yourself. You get hit in the head?"

"No, no. Just thinking about the chances that anyone here would cotton on to who you are."

"What brought that on?" Nick had turned to face her, watching her chip away at the thickly-frozen ice cream in front of Deaglan. _'She's really serious about that. About him. He got dessert, he's going to eat dessert. She makes sure about everything for him.'_

"You're not the only one with flight of ideas. Don't mind me, Nick. And please, don't let me keep you from dinner." Brena's stomach sent up another angry growl, which she again ignored. "The lasagna is pretty good, honest. This is one of the nights where the cafeteria meal is also the tray meal."

"Speaking of flight of ideas," Nick scrambled to keep her from brushing him off, "What hallway did you say? The second one?" _'I really, really don't like lying to you about this. I know you said the third one. What difference does it make if you go with me or not? I tried, that's all I had to do.'_

Her face went soft, almost drowning in sympathy, and she placed Deaglan's spoon on his tray. "No, Nick. The third one."

"I'm gonna get lost on the way there." Nick swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tepidly searching for the floor. "I mean, you said it's not that far. And you're right, I should get out of the room more often." _'Still lying. I really am not okay with this.'_

"Well, I didn't say all _that_ ," Brena countered, "But if you're worried about it, let me finish up with Deaglan and I'll walk you down there."

 _'Score! Dinner for two.'_ Nick mentally high-fived himself.

"...Besides, Deaglan might enjoy getting out of the room for something other than a test or labwork."

 _'Score, dinner for three? Whatever. It's company. I like spending time with her. Wait. I what?'_ Nick wrinkled his eyebrows for a fraction of a second, but tried not to give any more thought to the issue. He'd done what Meredith wanted; that was enough for now.

* * *

If he was being fair and honest with himself, Nick knew he really wouldn't have found the cafeteria on his own. He would have made it to the second hallway, like he said, and either given up due to the length of the walk, or been convinced he'd missed it entirely and doubled-back to try to find the room down a different hallway. _'If I pay attention, maybe I actually can come down here with Claudio. I don't wanna take any chances about leaving the facility, even if it's just for lunch. Someone would see me, take a picture, and corporate would shit a brick.'_

Brena guided Deaglan's wheelchair through the doors ahead of Nick, and then turned to make sure he was following her, causing him to nearly crash into her. "A little lost, Nick? Don't worry, the building isn't too complicated. Everything's off the main hallway, either left or right, and there's plenty of signs."

He didn't realize he was holding her by the elbows til she dropped her arms to her sides, turning to move Deaglan forward. "Yeah, uh...lost. Just trying to take it all in. Remember how we got here."

Muddling his way through the tray and silverware setup, Nick ended up with a decent-looking meal in front of him, thanks in no small part to Brena's help and repeated questions about what he would or wouldn't like to eat. It hadn't occurred to him that she didn't pick up a tray of her own until they sat down, at which point he sent a warning glare towards her.

"Nope. I'm not eating til you do. You didn't have breakfast or lunch."

"Oh, that? No, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. You should eat, though – you look like you're starting to feel a bit better."

Dropping his fork down with much more verve than was necessary, Nick slowly crossed his arms and made a show of pushing his tray away from him. "No. And you _know_ I can be a stubborn asshole."

"Really, Nick, I'm fine. I'll get something later, once Deaglan is asleep. From the looks of things, that'll be fairly soon, anyway." Brena gestured to her uncle, whose eyes were beginning to look heavy. "Go ahead, before your meal gets cold."

Picking up his spoon, Nick poked Brena's hand firmly. "No. Don't they teach you that in college, no means no?"

With a downward glance at her hoodie and a somewhat frustrated sigh, Brena took the spoon from Nick. "Okay, Nick. You win. Though to be fair, I said no, too."

"You got me there," He paused, slicing the lasagna in half and pushing it across his plate toward her, "But I'm still right that you skipped breakfast and lunch. Don't be dumb. Eat something."

"Sorry." Brena cringed, and took a small bite off of his plate.

 _'Way to be bitchy, Nemeth. You channeling your inner Meredith? Knock it off. And in front of her dad! Uncle. Whatever.'_ "Nah, I should apologize. I still act...I dunno. Moody? I wasn't trying to be angry about it." He shrugged and shook his head. "Meredith wanted me to-"

"Oh?" Brena's smile was positively bemused. "Since when are you two on the same team?"

Nick cleared his throat, pointedly. "I guess when it comes to you, we are." He felt flustered, and groped for a recovery. "Since I mentioned college, is that where you went?" He pointed the handle of his fork at her hoodie, then fished for a bite of lasagna to stuff in his mouth. _'Anything that makes me not say anything stupid. Food works. Shut up and chew.'_

"The University of the Arts. I'm a Philly girl through and through." Brena sounded wistful, then rolled her left shoulder back until it gave up a horrible pop. "I majored in dance, but that was a long time ago. After I graduated, I had an application out to UPenn, for a master's program. Social work." She rolled her other shoulder, earning the same deeply wet crunch. "That feels like so long ago. I don't think I even opened the letter from UPenn, to be honest. Maybe they accepted me?"

 _'That explains it. Bony like a dancer. Dressed like Catherine and Danielle because she dances. Danced? Whatever.'_ Nick looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

"So, yes, to actually answer you," Brena paused, took another bite of lasagna, and thought while chewing, "Yes, that's where I went to college. Really, I'm surprised the hoodie held up as long as it has. I'm, what, 31 now?"

"So...uh...you didn't go to UPenn?" _'She doesn't look 31. She looks younger and older. So...I guess she looks 31.'_

"No. Life...family...changed. And I managed to ruin my chances for any advanced work in dance; that was why I applied to the social work program."

 _'She must mean that's when she found out Hazel was so sick. Leave that alone for right now. What does she mean about the dance shit?'_ "Your shoulders?"

"You noticed." Brena smiled, but it was worn and sad. "I was in a stage production – it was a sort of mash-up of everyone's work for the semester – and was working silks when one of the girls performing with me took a bad swing and hit me." She shrugged. "Accidents happen."

"What'd she hit you with, a car? Just bumping someone doesn't jack their shoulders."

"Silks are..." Brena trailed off, giving her shoulders another small roll. _'Good grief. It's been forever since I thought about this, and even just thinking about it makes them hurt.'_ She tried again, aiming for clarity and not having the slightest clue what he did or didn't know about dance – most people knew nothing. "I was probably thirty feet in the air. My whole academic dance career was based around two things – my work in lyrical dance, and my aerial work. In the production, we were supposed to cross each other, with her behind me. We both knew that so much movement was a huge risk, but it was worth it. It was a beautiful piece." Brena waved her hand in front of her face, as much to refocus herself as to clear away the mental dust. "Anyway. After the accident, my partner said she was turned around, because she went to cross in front of me, not behind me. We were both mid-swing, so we slammed into each other. Neither one of us was expecting it, and we both fell. She managed to grab hold of the fabric and right herself, but the way I was turned, I couldn't see what I was reaching for."

"Holy shit, you hit the _ground_?" Incredulous, Nick stared at her. "You're lucky all you fucked up was your shoulders."

"I...hit the ground, after a fashion." Brena pushed a piece of noodle around the edge of the plate. "I got hold of the silk, too, but I had to throw my arms behind my head to do it. Once I grabbed the fabric, I dug my hands in, but I couldn't account for gravity. With my arms behind me, my shoulders dislocated. My instructor said it was the best performance of a strappado she'd ever seen." She sighed, then continued. "After they dislocated, _then_ I hit the ground. Nothing broke, luckily. I was so tangled in the fabric that I think it slowed me down along the way."

"And now?"

"And now I don't dance. My arms – well, shoulders – can't support me" _'That's a version of the truth, I suppose, and maybe he'll be nice enough not to ask about the PT room again. I do dance, but not the way I did at University. Half-choreographing routines I can't force myself through no matter how hard I try doesn't really count.'_

"You do okay moving him around," Nick gestured to Deaglan, "So...maybe you _could_ dance?"

"Deaglan helps me more than you think. He knows when I'm trying to lift him, and he tries to move with me. In terms of dance, though, it's too risky. If I any aerial work and my shoulder gave out, I'd likely hurt the person performing with me."

" _Or yourself, you holiday nutbar. But don't think of that, Brena, worry about your hypothetical dance partner.'_ "Okay, fair enough about fancy-dance, but," Nick ignored Brena's giggle at 'fancy dance,' "What about the other shit you did? Lyrical, or whatever?"

"You'd have to dance to understand, Nick. So much of it is in your arms. I can't hold positions for very long, I couldn't work with a partner for lifts, none of it. I put the whole notion out of my head – the University was kind enough to allow me to graduate, even though I couldn't do any sort of performance work in my last semester. I couldn't have asked for more. Then I applied to UPenn. Social work seemed fitting; Hazel was a teacher. The way she'd help the children in her classroom was a bit like what a worker would do, so I had a good model, a good idea of what I'd be getting into."

"But you didn't go," Nick pointed out, "And you don't dance."

"True, on both counts." Brena's face remained neutral, and Nick didn't know if she was upset or simply accepting of the fact that life handed her a set of socket-wrenched shoulders, among other insults. "It wouldn't have mattered, anyway; I qualified for my diploma and then found out Hazel had...worsened."

"Oh?" Nick was cautious; Meredith said Brena didn't talk to anyone, and yet there she was: talking.

"I could have lived at home while I was in Uni, but I wanted to give Hazel and Deaglan...space? Time? They'd done so much by taking me in, I thought the least I could do was try to be an adult on my own. Not take up more of their life than they'd already given me, you know, things like that. I was around, but not really home, for a majority of Hazel's illness. They both pushed me to follow my heart, where performance was concerned – Hazel especially, she was brilliant in ballet when she was younger – and that took up so much of my time at uni. Deaglan always said things at home were fine, but when I called to tell them when the graduation ceremony was..."

 _'Uh, that's not good. Why so quiet, Brena?'_ Nick reached over for her hand, much the same way she'd done for him, earlier. "Let me guess, she couldn't make it?"

"She wanted to – she was convinced she was fine – but Deaglan wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not. It sounded strange to me, that Deaglan wasn't able to decide whether or not Hazel was well enough to come, so I went over to their brownstone to see what was going on. That was..." She tightened her lips for a second, then spoke again. "That was how this all started, I suppose."

"You said Deaglan got his diagnosis because of Hazel."

"I said that, or Meredith did?" Her smile was watery, but present. "Meredith knows the story, so I suppose that's alright. But, yes, that's basically what happened. I knew Hazel was diagnosed with heart failure, but what I didn't know was how bad it had become. Deaglan was trying to manage her care on his own, but he couldn't keep track of everything. Hazel wasn't getting all of her medications, wasn't going to doctor's appointments, things like that. Deaglan didn't intend to do those things, obviously, but he was so forgetful of schedules and so prone to losing bottles of pills..." She trailed off, suddenly fascinated by poking at the piece of noodle she'd nearly mashed into paste on Nick's plate.

"Jesus, Brena, I'm sorry."

"Oh, no, don't be sorry, Nick. Hazel held on for quite some time, despite things." Brena squeezed his hand, suddenly aware he was holding hers – though she didn't try to move away. "The worst part was that Deaglan was so upset, to be honest. He felt like he'd failed her. But...the longer I stayed with them, the more I realized, something wasn't quite right with him, and it wasn't just stress from Hazel. After Hazel passed, I took him to a specialist, and then there it was. Alzheimer's. Dementia."

"So you moved back home? Why not open the letter from UPenn?"

Brena shrugged, unsure of what to say. "Initially, it was temporary, to take care of Hazel. Then once she passed, Deaglan needed help settling her affairs...and eventually, he just needed help. Things became too much for him. I tried maintaining my own apartment after Hazel passed, just checking in on him and making sure the day to day things were taken care of, but the day I came over and the electricity was turned off, I knew that was it." Brena sighed. "Really, I think it was something like eight months after Hazel passed that I moved back into the brownstone full-time, so not long at all. With the electricity, I came over to find him sitting in the dark, in the parlor, and the brownstone was just sweltering. He didn't even have the windows open, and you know – well, you'll see, you're going to be here long enough – how hot Philadelphia gets in the summer. He was fit to smother, and that was that. I broke the contract on my apartment, packed everything, and came back. There wasn't any room in that for graduate school."

 _'Okay, so she got dumped by her parents, barely skated by on her bachelor's because she got hurt and couldn't perform, may-or-may-not have gotten into a master's program, then her family died-and-a-half. Who were you in a past life, Hitler? What a fucking bucket of karma.'_ "Well," Nick groped for words, "Uh...well...you're here for him now."

"Even if I was there for him sooner, I couldn't have prevented it. Though I will say, he pushed for me to open the letter. UPenn had a rugby team that he wanted to go see while he could remember it." Brena chuckled, but it was flat. "And now, here we are. He loved his sports, and when he happened on the link between Alzheimer's and concussion damage, that was it. He called Dr. Morgan – the director of clinical research – and asked what he could do."

 _'And I bet Morgan was REAL excited to get in there and_ _plan to_ _carve him up, too. Jesus. How can you have 'brain-slicer' as your job description?'_ "It's like you said, though, Bren. Something good will come out of it."

"I'm not Heyabrena anymore?"

Nick paused, then grumbled, "No. No, I guess not." He nudged his parfait toward her, flustered, not missing the tiny smile on her face. It was a bit 'gotcha' and a bit genuine amusement, even though she hadn't said another word. "Oh, shut up, Brena. Seriously."

The tiny smile never moved – and Deaglan even offered up one of his own.

* * *

Thank you all for your reviews and support! It means the world to me. For those of you who are owed reviews, or if there's something of yours you'd like me to read - even if you haven't reviewed my work - shoot me a message and let me know. I'm slow with reviews, but I'm more than happy to read others' work!


	10. What Are Friends For?

Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers, and welcome to anyone new who may be taking a chance on the story. I look forward to hearing from you! As always, feel free to drop me a line - I'm always interested in R/R'ing the work of others, and I'm thrilled when they return the favor.

Onward!

* * *

As promised, Claudio arrived on time, lugging a giant suitcase behind him, a stack of letters and cards for Nick from various performers and friends in the WWE tucked neatly under his arm. Nick was surprised; he assumed people would be glad to be rid of him, even if it was only short-term. _'I know what a pain in the ass I can be. Or at least, I feel like I'm a pain in the ass. Looking at Brena, Mother Theresa would probably be a pain in the ass by comparison.'_

"My friend! You are looking well. I trust things have improved?" Claudio was beyond enthusiastic, pulling Nick into a one-armed embrace, then pushing him back to survey him. He looked rested and comfortable, dressed in something that could have carried him to the gym or simply carried him through the day – a far cry from the haggard and pained person he'd seen get wheeled into an ambulance.

"I'm feeling better, yeah. Good to see ya, man." Nick's eyes searched Claudio's face for a moment before he dropped his head and shuffled his feet. "Listen, I owe you an apolo-"

Claudio's hands shot up, waving off the apology as though it was poison. "No, no, my friend. You owe me nothing. You were injured, you were not well. As long as you are doing better now, everything past is past."

"Fuck me, you're just as bad as she is." Nick chuckled and waved Claudio into his room, not seeing Meredith's stony glare.

* * *

Meredith was glad to see Nick have a visitor; what she wasn't thrilled with was Nick's perpetual need to constantly get in a tiny dig at Brena. She wasn't aware of their conversation over dinner; all she did know that Nick had managed to get Brena down to the cafeteria and further, got her to eat half a dinner. Had she known Brena opened up to him a bit and they'd moved solidly into a genuine friendship, she might have reserved her dirty look for a more deserving party. Opting to leave it at a glare, Meredith focused her attention back on the paperwork and forms cluttering the nurses' station, pausing to answer the phone when it rang – she recognized Brena's cell number immediately.

"What happened?"

"Good grief, Mer, I don't even merit a greeting?" Brena sounded almost happy, and Meredith was glad to hear the lilt in her friend's voice. "Everything's fine. I just wanted to call and let you know Deaglan and I were going to be out past lunch. I know Doctor Morgan doesn't have anything scheduled for us, plus Nick said something about having a visitor and I don't want to be in the way for that. Deaglan's got this smile on his face like you wouldn't believe. I'll send you a picture. Oh – and I'll call the kitchen to have them cancel his lunch tray. I feel like pushing my luck with this, but we'll pick something up from that pub he used to love."

"Well, listen to you. It sounds like smiles all around, not just on Deaglan."

Brena paused and hummed a bit, thinking. "You know, Mer? Honestly? Yeah. I think this is the best I've felt in a while. Deaglan had a low turn, and I think it took me with it a bit."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with, I don't know, say, lasagna for two?" Meredith was half-teasing and half-fishing for information. Nick had remained strangely quiet about their dinner together, only confirming to Meredith that Brena had, in fact, walked with him to the cafeteria, brought Deaglan with them, and had half a serving of part of a meal. Meredith grudgingly respected that Nick stayed largely mum about the details of their dinner together – she'd expected him to blab immediately about whatever they'd done or talked about.

"What do you – oh, Meredith! For heaven's sake." Meredith could almost hear Brena's nose wrinkle. "It didn't take me long to figure out you were behind that. Really, though, thank you. It was nice to sit and talk with someone." _'I didn't realize how much I missed conversation. He's a sweet man, to listen to me complain for a solid hour. Very patient.'_

"Wait, what? Sit, yes, but _talk?_ " Meredith looked at the phone slack-jawed. "I mean, uh...right. Talk! Talk. Good thing that you had dinner, then. Yep."

"You sound surprised, Meredith. Is everything okay?"

"Uh...yeah. Yeah, I suppose it is. It's just...that...you-"

"He's not a bad person, Mer. You two are like oil and water, sure...but he's pleasant enough now that he's settled down."

"Whatever you say, Brena. I'll see you two when you get back – just let me know if we should hold dinner."

Meredith replaced the receiver and flipped her pen end-for-end in her hand, thinking back to the things Nick had said to Brena during the first few days of his stay, before looking at his door. "You know, I _know_ you got hit in the head, and hit hard, at that. But...there was something _real_ about what you said to her, how hateful you were. That's what's got me worried. Though...if Brena says you're okay, there _might_ be something to it." Her expression changed to something sinister, aimed at Nick's half-shut door, she continued, "But so help me God, if you throw _anything_ she told you back at her, I'll make sure you don't just rehab on the roof, you'll rehab where they can't find the body parts."

* * *

"As bad as who, Nick? And what is bad?"

"My roommate. I mean, my roommate's daughter. Brena. She's out with Deaglan right now – he's my roommate. I think she said they were going out to some pet store, or something. Deaglan's got this thing for birds because of his wife, and the weather finally let up enough for her to take him. You've gotta meet this chick, for real. She's nuts, but in a good way." Nick nudged the door just shut enough for privacy and quiet, and turned to face Claudio while aimlessly shuffling cards and letters around in his hands. Claudio, meanwhile, was trying to decide where to sit and getting little help from Nick as to what seating was allowable – or comfortable.

"It sounds like she has made quite an impression on you," Claudio continued to scan the room, trying to work out where to place himself. He shrugged and settled into the chair near Deaglan's bed, though he had to adjust a few times before he worked into a position that made the stiff chair tolerable. He breathed deeply before continuing. "What is this perfume, ginger? If this is her, I understand the impression." He smiled broadly at Nick, happy to see his friend happy – or at least amused – with Brena.

Nick felt an odd twinge in his mind after Claudio's comment, innocent though it was. "Christmas cookies," he mumbled, "She reminds me of Christmas cookies. God, I _still_ think _so_ fucked-up." Nick slid up onto the edge of his bed, feet bouncing off the rails and supports under the mattress as he kicked them back and forth. _'It's happening again. I'm thinking things all out of order._ _I shouldn't be thinking about her. Her perfume remind_ _s_ _me of my grandmother, but not in an old-lady way._ _H_ _olidays. God, I loved Christmas._ _'_

"What is this, Nick? You suddenly look unwell." Claudio leaned forward, concerned, resting his elbows on his knees. "We have not talked in some time. Come, tell me what is bothering you."

"It's not just her, man. It's _everything._ I mean, she's not _bothering_ me, but... _"_ Nick looked around the room, a helpless expression on his face. "I'm stuck here, sure, there's that, but then _she's_ here, and it's like all my thinking just got _completely_ fucked up. Not her fault, or anything, but shit stopped making sense and...and...just..."

"Slow down, my friend. Start at the beginning." Claudio shifted, giving up on comfort and settled firmly back in Brena's chair. His eyes searched out some clue or prompt in Deaglan's possessions to help his friend explain himself. Surveying the contents of the room, Brena and Deaglan's half was intensely personal; clearly it was their home away from home – if they had a home, anymore. Nick's side was bare in comparison, but Claudio hoped he'd brought enough things to help make it more familiar. Listening to Nick talk about Brena, he also hoped the things he'd brought would give Brena some insight to who Nick was. _'Even if she reads a card, or a letter. He seems so unorganized in his mind, it makes me wonder what she understands of him._ _'_

"I was a dick when I got here. Like, _royal_ pain in the ass. But she – her – Brena – she was just so _cool_ about it. I was fucking _horrible_ to her, and to her uncle – and Christ, once I explain _that_ one to you, you're gonna want to go out a window – but she didn't care. I mean, she _did_ care, but she cared about me. Like, trying to make me feel better."

"You make little sense, my friend. I assume she is why you have a handmade quilt, and not a terrible hospital blanket?" Claudio winked, hoping he'd slow Nick down a bit. _'Your words are a tumble, my friend. Sort yourself ou_ _t. Perhaps tell me about the blanket?_ _'_

"Exactly! Exactly. This is hers. And it smells like her perfume. Or, uh, it used to. It's pretty much gone, now, and I almost want to ask her for another quilt, or to take this one back and make it gingery again, or something. I don't know." Involuntarily, his hands closed around palmfuls of the fabric, bunching it together. The gesture wasn't lost on Claudio; Nick looked like he was seeking something – her – out with his grasp. "I don't even know why that's important. She's just...she's _weird_. Not in a creepy awkward way, but it's like...you want to be nice to _everyone_ because she's around. One of _those_ people."

"Very patient? Always a kind word for everyone?" _'And why are you so frustrated with this?_ _You have always been kind, as well –_ _or at least, playful – unless_ _this injury has changed you in a way I do not yet understand._ _'_

"Fuck, Claudio, I think you and her might almost be related, if it wasn't for the whole 'She's Irish' thing. If she starts talking about any relatives named Stephen, though, I'm done."

Claudio cleared his throat and smiled, choosing to ignore the comment about Stephen. Backstage, Stephen had made no secret of his amusement that Nick was out of commission thanks to their series of warring high boots and rough bumps, and Claudio had come close to punching him on several occasions. He wasn't amused about the company's decision to push for a concussion awareness media blitz. For one, he doubted Nick would understand what was being asked of him or be able to hold up through it, and while it was no secret to the fans that Nick was out due to injury, Claudio also doubted that he'd want the fans thinking he'd lost his mind in the process of getting hurt.

For two, the media work involved Stephen and Nick in close quarters. Talent Relations had decided it would help the men put aside their differences, promote safety, and discourage backyard wrestlers from attempting untrained, unsafe pseudo-matches. Claudio highly doubted any of those things would be the end result of the media work. Focusing on the other half of the topic – and recalling that Stephen had made more than a few lewd comments about what he'd do to Nick's roommate's daughter if she looked as good as she sounded when he came up to see Nick – he continued. "You sound rather fond of her, Nick, yes?" _'May God save Stephen if he oversteps either Nick's boundaries, or this woman's. From what Nick says, she is kind, but kindness often comes with a spine of steel.'_

There, Nick paused. "Fond? Like, not in a dopey makin'-babies way, but yeah, I like her. I like being around her, anyway. She had no idea who I was when I got here, and it was nice to just talk to someone who only wanted to talk. I didn't have an angle to work, with her. It was just conversation, like I was normal."

"And now?" Claudio suddenly looked like the cat who ate the canary, sensing something wistful in Nick's voice. "You said you were _not_ dopey, Nick, did you not?"

"Aw, shut up, Claudio. It's really not like that." _'Isn't it?'_ Nick rolled his eyes, but continued. "What I was about to say earlier was that she...I dunno. She's so _nice_."

"You did say that, earlier. She must be exceptional if she has reduced you to a single word." Nick didn't retort, which gave Claudio pause. "Truly, Nick. No comments from you? Either I have hit a nerve, or there is something else at work here."

"When I first got here, I was a dick to her," Nick said quietly, "But like I said, she was real chill about it. And I mean a _dick_. I think I said she was sleeping with her uncle for the money, or something equally bullshitty." Claudio's eyebrows flew up as his jaw dropped down, but Nick waved him off. The expression remained, however, and the depth and breadth of Nick's injury settled over Claudio like an impossible net. He hadn't realized just how rattled Nick had been – irritable, yes, but not as offensive as all that – and now that Nick was admitting to one horrid comment after another, the gravity of the injury he'd sustained became abundantly clear.

"And Brena just _took_ it, "Nick continued, either not seeing or choosing to ignore the look on Claudio's face, "Like 'whatever,' like it was nothing. Didn't phase her. This was before I actually let anyone here work with me. I think I was too busy being pissed off." ' _Well, that and...scared._ _Not that I'm gonna admit that one out loud.'_ Nick cleared his throat, hard, and continued. "I had a really bad night; it was like my mind fell apart. I know concussions fuck with your memory, but I was _remembering_ everything _,_ not forgetting. Thinking about work – and I mean _way_ back in the day, Spirit Squad bullshit – my family, old girlfriends, but none of it was in order. None of it made sense."

"But what does this have to do with her, Nick?" Claudio looked lost. _'None of_ this _is in an order that makes sense, my friend. Keep trying; what are you getting at?'_

Half a wry smile cracked its way onto Nick's face. "She let me talk to her, and brought me a glass of water. She fixed the quilt so my feet weren't cold. And she had to be tired as shit the night she did it, too. Like I said, she's fuckin' weird. Brena's so busy with her uncle, but she's still got time for me. It's like she _makes_ time for me. Doesn't expect a single fuckin' thing in return, either." Shrugging his shoulders, Nick sighed. "That night, I decided I should stay. Get help."

"Then she has done a good thing for you." Claudio's tone was sincere, but Nick could see the puzzle working behind his eyes. Claudio had much less suspicion of pleasant people than Nick did, but even he was trying to figure Brena out, fit her pieces into a whole picture.

"She _only_ does good things. For _everyone._ Man, if that was me, or maybe even you – I dunno, you've got patience for that kind of shit, so maybe you'd be okay – but if that was me, I woulda been done. I couldn't handle Deaglan and I sure as shit wouldn't have put up with me. This chick's been through the wars, too. Her parents just dumped her, she snapped her shoulders at college in this...like, recital thing, and now her uncle. And this shit with her uncle only got figured out _because_ her aunt died. Her aunt and uncle, they _raised_ her, can you imagine? Just sitting here, watching your whole life, all your people, _die_?"

"No, Nick," Claudio was suddenly somber, "No, I cannot imagine." He paused, thoughtful. "Given that she was so gentle with you, why were you being so rude to her?"

"At first? Because I was fuckin' livid that I was stuck here. Thanks, by the way, you fuckin' narc. I _know_ it was you that told the docs I passed out." Nick's smile was mischievous and it gave him away – he wasn't really angry, at least not anymore, and Claudio relaxed. "But really, _thank you_. I needed to come here. They're giving me stuff for my moods and for the headaches, and they're working on memory exercises and balance drills and shit. It's a good place to be."

"You did not finish your thought." Claudio poured a glass of water for Nick, using Deaglan's pitcher, and walked it over to him. "You were telling me why you were treating...what was her name, Brena? Why you were treating Brena so poorly."

"Fuck. Right. I still do that, get sidetracked real easy." Nick passed the glass of water from hand to hand, grateful for something to look at that wasn't Claudio's questioning eyes. "It was...and this was still before they started working with me...it was more that I was pissed off my brain is as fucked up as it is. That I fucked up at work again. My mind would get going and I just bounced from thought to thought, back and forth. That wasn't her fault, but she was here, so she was a target. Then it turned into a game, like trying to test her. Like, nobody was _really_ that nice. It wasn't possible. And then I saw her uncle..."

"Either you were not as bad as you thought, my friend, or this woman shall be a saint when she passes away."

Nick snorted. "Sainthood. _Definitely_ that. You gotta meet her, C. You're gonna feel the same way I do."

"Oh? And what way is that?" Genuinely confused, Claudio waited for Nick's response – which he seemed to be trying to fish from the bottom of his glass. Nick stared into the water like the words he needed would suddenly surface from it.

"I...I dunno, C. It's nice to have someone around who just wants to talk to me. I'm not gonna lie, though, she got shit all tangled up in my head."

 _'Ah, there it is. Nick is interested in her.'_ "You are thinking of her...well, fondly. As I said before."

"No. Well, maybe? I don't know. I look at how she treats her uncle, and she's so...I know I already said patient and nice, but it's not just that. This guy has no idea where he is, who he is – he probably doesn't even know who Brena is, anymore – but she's _there_. All the time, _always_ there. Dresses him. Feeds him. Takes him out to shop, to walk around, whatever. She doesn't have a life, she has _him_." Nick paused. "Well, no. I don't mean it like that. I mean he _is_ her life. The way she cares about him? I've never seen _anything_ like that. Ever."

"So you are jealous? Stricken? I do not understand what she has done wrong." _'Is it so surprising to you, Nick, that someone could have room in them for affection?'_

"Nothing! That's not what I'm sayin', C. It's like...she does everything _right_. She _should_ be pissed off, she _should_ be a flying fucking bitch, but she's _not_. It's...she's..."

"She is devoted to her uncle. She loves him, but it is more than simple love. He _is_ her, she _is_ him, no?"

"No. I mean, yes. Yes! That's it. He needs her, and she's got the option to just fuck off, go live a normal life, but she's here all the time. And it's like it doesn't cross her mind, ever, that she could be somewhere else, doing something else. In her head, if you love someone, this is what you do. You don't ask about it or wonder about it, you just do it."

"And this is so wrong, Nick?"

"No!" Frustrated, Nick banged his glass of water down on the bedside table. "It's like...it's..."

"Calm down, my friend. She must be a special person if you are reacting this way." _'Did you not realize you felt this way, Nick? And what way is it that you feel? Enamored? Alone? Disappointed?'_

"It's that nobody's ever been like that for me, and I've been fucked up _so_ many times, and what girlfriend do you _ever_ remember me having who brought me blankets and fixed my curtains and smelled like Christmas cookies?" _'Oh shit, Nemeth. When did that happen? Oh, shit. You really did it, this time.'_

Claudio opened his mouth, then closed it, carefully considering his words. _'These are interesting developments for you, Nick. Perhaps you needed the concussion?'_ "Nick, to be honest, you do not usually have...girlfriends. You have women you see once or twice, but you do not keep them in your life. Ah...I am meaning, to get to know them." Claudio cleared his throat. "It takes time to build the kind of trust and caring you say she displays. Now that you are here for six months-"

"Nah, man." Nick shrugged. "Trust me. Just...nah." _'She wouldn't want anything like me – I'm too much like her uncle, or I will be. But...I think...do I want something like her?'_ Nick's jaw ticked furiously, and he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Whatever you say, my friend." Claudio, knowing that it was better to give up than to push Nick, changed the topic entirely. "Should we have lunch? You have mentioned the food in the past, and I would like to see this place, since you will be here for some time."

"Time is all I have right now, C. C'mon, let's hit the cafeteria." He paused. "Actually...let's pick up something for Brena and Deaglan, while we're there. I'm kinda surprised she's not back by now."

Sliding down from the edge of the bed and passing Claudio, Nick never saw his friend shake his head and smile knowingly.


	11. Dig A Little Deeper

Meredith looked strangely from Nick to Claudio and back again when Nick said he'd pick up lunch trays for Brena and Deaglan, but after a moment of stammering did manage to tell him not to bother. His concern about Brena's absence was written on his face, but Meredith paid him little mind after waving him off, and offered no explanation. Claudio struggled to understand why something as simple as lunch would bother Nick.

"She's _always_ here for lunch with him." Nick was more talking tom himself than anything, looking down at the floor and mumbling. Meredith hadn't bothered to engage him, and Claudio was trying to silently appraise the situation.

"Is it not possible that she took him _out_ to lunch? Surely she would not make him wait for a meal simply because they were away from the hospital." From everything Nick had said, Brena seemed too involved and too attentive to let an entire meal slip by.

"Of course I wouldn't; I picked up lunch for him on the way back. Why, did Dr. Morgan need us?" Brena had heard both Nick and Claudio's comments; while Claudio sounded logical, Nick sounded oddly concerned.

Nick breathed out a sigh of relief as Brena wheeled Deaglan up the hallway and stopped next to them, a delicious-smelling takeout box in Deaglan's lap. "No – er, not that I know of. I was just surprised you weren't here for lunch." At that, Deaglan sent up a half-moan, drawing Nick's attention to him. "Everything good, ol' man? Your kid here had me worried."

Brena quirked her eyebrows and looked at Meredith. Meredith shrugged and looked back down into a chart, not wanting Brena to see the smirk creeping across her face. Looking from Nick to Claudio and back again, Brena felt lost.

"Well...alright? He's fine, Nick, I promise. I picked up food from a pub he used to like. It was nice to just be outside; April was a bear. Now that it's May, we'll be spending more time outside, anyway." Brena looked at Nick, amused that he'd crouched in front of Deaglan to talk to him, quietly asking if he thought he'd like his lunch and where they'd gone on their outing. Aware of the other man lingering in the hall, Brena then looked up at Claudio. "I'm sorry, we haven't met. I'm Brena." She gestured for a handshake, and Claudio was unsurprised when she clasped his hand between both of hers.

 _'She is warm. And warm in personality, as well. Very friendly. Perhaps this is what Nick needed – someone decent in his life, someone concerned.'_ "Claudio. It is a delight to meet you. Nick has told me so much about you."

Brena flinched, visibly. "Oh...oh dear. Well, I...I hope it was all pleasant." _'Brena, this is why you do not TALK to people about yourself. About anything. You don't need anyone's pity. Nick probably meant well, but Claudio probably thinks you're such a sad-sack, now.'_

"Of course, of course! Nick has had nothing but kind words about you. I feel I must apologize for him, however. My friend is quite the...he is quite..." Claudio paused and looked at Nick, who was still focused intently on Deaglan. "He said he was not at his best when he came in."

Brena laughed, rich and warm, and Claudio couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "Nick was feisty when he came in. 'Ar buile,' as we would say. On the warpath. He's-" Brena turned to look at Nick, who now had a hand resting on Deaglan's knee while he talked. When she next spoke, her voice quieted considerably, as though she was sharing a secret with Claudio. "He's doing much better, now. And, he's quite patient with the two of us." Brena moved back to Deaglan, patting her uncle on the shoulder.

"You said you brought lunch?" Nick looked up to Brena from his crouch on the floor, his hand still on Deaglan's knee. "Meaning, you're going to eat, too?" _'You said...more time outside? Looks like I better find a good book, because my ass is gonna be by itself in lockdown. Fucking company won't let me out the doors. Fuck loneliness.'_

"I had this _strange_ feeling you'd be unhappy with me if I didn't, so the order was shepherd's pie for two. No worries, Nick," Brena nudged him with her foot, "I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself. Been at it for quite a while."

Nick rolled his eyes, and gestured for Brena to help him up from the floor, though Claudio reached for Nick's hand at the same time Brena did and caught hold of him first. Nick's irritated expression wasn't lost on Claudio as he came up to vertical, though Brena paid it no attention. Behind them all, Meredith slapped the phone onto the receiver much more heavily than was necessary, drawing everyone's attention to her.

"C'mon, Blondie. Doctor Morgan has to leave early – something about changing flight plans for a conference – so your MRI got moved."

"Uh, c'mon _what_? Why do I need to-"

"I'm not saying 'please.' You need to get your ass in the MRI lab, now. You're the last one of the day before Morgan gets on a plane. Diagnostics are critical. Move it."

Nick scrunched his eyes shut and took a deep, ragged breath, trying to choke down the bubbling irritation he felt threatening his otherwise good mood. Seeing his swift change in mood, Brena pressed her hands against Nick, one to his arm and the other over one of his hands. "Don't be frustrated. I'm sure it won't take long."

Claudio watched in amazement as Nick's entire face relaxed, his other hand almost coming up to cover Brena's against his arm – but he thought better of the motion halfway through it and instead raked it through his hair. It was odd to see Nick fly from calm to irked so easily; odder still to see Brena's immediate effect on him. _'I didn't realize it was this bad – both his moods and his feelings. Now, how to sort him out?'_

"I can see Claudio out for you, if you'd like?" Brena's tone remained cautious, as though she was expecting something that might not be entirely pleasant when it arrived.

Nick didn't move or speak, and Claudio felt he had to jump in, quickly, in case the situation became explosive. "Do not worry, my friend. It seems half the company has media and signing duties in this city. I will be back tomorrow."

Meredith rolled her eyes and huffed as she walked out from behind her desk. "Well, isn't this touching. Can you go to the MRI lab _now_ , or do you need more people around to make a full-fledged Hallmark production out of it?" She grabbed Nick roughly by the elbow and shoved him ahead of her, more forcing than encouraging him to walk.

When Nick reached the end of the hallway with Meredith, he turned and looked back toward Deaglan's room. The same warning, gnawing feeling that had accosted his stomach when Stephen asked about Brena hit him again, full-force. Brena and Deaglan were still in the hallway, Claudio next to her, crouching to talk to Deaglan the same way Nick had been.

It was her hand on Claudio's shoulder that gave Nick the feeling someone had just walked over his grave.

* * *

Nick laid in the metal tube for what felt like a year, listening to the clank and clang of the magnet around him. His thoughts were entirely back in the hallway with Brena and Claudio. He'd wanted to stay with them, pass the time in conversation, see Deaglan have his meal, and then his brain slammed the brakes on – he'd thought of Brena both possessively and personally.

 _'Why was she being that friendly with Claudio? Did he say something to her? No, it's Brena, she's like that with everyone. Isn't she?'_ In that moment, Nick was greedy for her attention, wanted to keep it all for himself and play the role of the favorite.

A particularly jarring thump brought Nick back to reality, and Meredith's tinny, static-laden voice came over the speaker in the machine, telling him not to worry – the machine was changing positioning of both the table and the magnet. As the table slid and gritted underneath him, Nick skittered back into his own thoughts. _'It's not like she's gonna replace me with Claudio. I'm here another...five and a half months? Four? I don't know, I'm still bad with time.'_ It occurred to him, in an angry whisper of an idea, that he might actually _be_ replaceable, that she tolerated him grudgingly simply because he was present, but her interest and investment in him ended there. ' _It feels like the job replaced me, even with the letters. All I'm gonna be good for is some concussion-awareness shit with Stephen. I'm not doing this hospital any good. Maybe I should ask Brena if I can help with anything about the study. All of my friends replaced me – the only who who even called while all this shit went down was Claudio. All of my girlfriends replaced m-"_

And then, it hit him. Claudio, his persistently cheerful, desperately kind, endlessly patient friend was alone with the woman he thought of the same way. They were so similar they almost had no choice but to get along – no – to do _more_ than get along. Worry churned through him again, followed by a wave of nervous rage that he was worried at all.

"Meredith?" Nick had no idea if there was any way for her to hear him, but he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts.

"Yeah, Blondie? I already told you not to worry about the noise." Still tinny, Meredith's voice cut across the speaker and echoed around the tube of the MRI.

"Is Brena...I mean...her and..."

"You've got issues, you know that?"

Nick sighed, heavily, but held still. _'I know, Meredith. I can't explain them, either, I just know they're there. You can thank Amy for that shit, I guess.'_ He rocked his feet back and forth, earning an equally heavy sigh from Meredith. It boomed like static through the speaker, causing him to cringe and flinch his head back.

"If you move again, we're gonna have to start over. Ten minutes and we're done. Now hold _still._ " _'I need to talk to Brena. Something about you is getting to be too much too quick, and she's oblivious to it, whatever it is.'_

Balling his hands into fists, Nick started to count to six hundred.

* * *

From the floor, Claudio looked up at Brena, his hand never leaving its perch on Deaglan's knee. "I do not have to leave at this moment. In fact, if you have time, I would like very much to talk to you."

Brena's expression was skeptical, and she looked at her watch, recalling Claudio's comment about a signing. He threw his hands up. "No, no, Fraulein. Not for any reason that is wrong. Come, come. My time is accounted for." Claudio pushed the door to Nick's room open, and then returned to Deaglan's wheelchair. "May I? Nick told me you were with him all day, you must be tired."

Insisting on moving Deaglan into the room for her, Claudio left Brena to hold the takeout box and set up the overbed table. She'd balked at first, but her uncle didn't grumble about having someone else behind his wheelchair. Claudio was even kind enough to stop Deaglan near the bed, so it was easy for her to move him into position for lunch. Just as Nick said, she doted on her uncle – napkins were folded, plasticware was laid out properly, and she spooned bite after bite gently into Deaglan's mouth.

Equally as gently, Claudio began. "What has my friend told you about himself?"

Pausing mid-spoonful, Brena tilted her head toward Claudio, who had made himself as comfortable as he could in Deaglan's bedside chair. She had to think, and think hard, before she could come up with an answer. Nick really hadn't shared much in the way of specifics about himself. He'd talked about his job in generalities, but that was the same way Brena had talked about dance. She knew he had a grandmother, some sort of infatuation with Christmas, and problems at work had landed him at Magee. Beyond that, Brena had a large blank space where he was concerned.

"I should take your silence to mean that he has not told you much. Or at least, he has not told you much that has made any sense."

"Not really," Brena shrugged. "But, he hasn't really been himself, I imagine."

Claudio nodded. "Nick is...was...very outgoing. A horrible sense of humor, to be sure, but one he never minded inflicting on the rest of us. This injury..." He paused, carefully considering his words. "Did he tell you this is the third time he has had such an injury?"

"Three? Good grief. No wonder he's so-" She trailed off, clearly thinking.

"So…?" Claudio paused, waiting expectantly. "How is he, Brena?"

"Nick's a lovely person, but he seems so...I'm not sure there's a word. If he's spent so much time injured, he's probably..." Brena looked at Deaglan, then at Claudio. "He's afraid, isn't he?"

"Yes. Yes, that is a good word for it. He has never been hurt this badly, never truly had anyone to take care of him. I imagine this is all an exercise in helplessness for him."

"Take care of him?" Brena chuckled. "He could hire whatever care he needed, I imagine. Not to mention, Nick's about the last person I picture as helpless."

"No, not in that sense. Brena, he adores you. The first thing he told me about you – repeatedly – was how kind you were to him. And patient. He does not know how to ask for help, so when you offered it to him, he did not know what to do. This is no excuse for his behavior; I understand he was quite boorish. I say this to help you understand him." Claudio walked to Nick's dresser and began to shuffle through the letters and cards he'd brought, picking out a select few, shuffling them back and forth until he seemed satisfied with their arrangement, and handed them to Brena.

"I assume you want me to read these to him?" Claudio nodded. "What is is you're trying to have me understand, mo chara?" Brena giggled at herself. "Friend. It's funny how easy I slip in with you two. Though, I think Nick might be a little upset if I start going through his mail." Nonetheless, Brena stacked the envelopes neatly in the top drawer of Deaglan's nightstand, careful not to get them out of order.

"This is not a bad thing, Fraulein. Friends are an invaluable asset. Do not worry, you can tell him I asked you to read these." Claudio smiled at her and patted her arm reassuringly, as if to say, _'You aren't over-reaching. You're more than welcome to do this for us.'_ "Nick has a good sense of humor, as I said. However, he uses that wit as a sword and shield."

"Amen, there. I've seen the sword. He was very angry when he arrived, though that was all the injury talking. And as for a shield...yes. I get the feeling there's something very sad behind his smile and wit. But, he doesn't talk to me about that."

"Then..." Claudio paused. "Then, I will. When your uncle is finished, we should go for a walk around the building. Nick did not show me anything here; it would be nice to see the facility."

Brena laughed brightly. "Oh, of _course_ he didn't. Poor thing – what would he do with himself if someone knew he liked it here, hm?" To that, Deaglan added a happy chorus of, "Birds! Fly, birds!"

* * *

After lunch, Claudio and Brena walked aimlessly through the facility, Claudio insisting he push Deaglan the entire time. Deaglan was enthusiastic about the decision, Claudio walked faster than Brena did behind the wheelshair, and Deaglan looked left and right as they moved, as though things in the hallways were somehow different simply because they were blurring past him quicker than usual.

What surprised Brena about the whole encounter, almost even more than Deaglan happily accepting Claudio behind his chair, was Claudio's openness about Nick. _'I'd have Meredith's hide if she discussed me with other people...but he isn't doing it with malice. Honestly, I can't figure out what he's doing. But, it's nice to have a clearer picture.'_

Everything was on the table, from old matches to old girlfriends, and Brena was unsurprised to discover that not only had he dated a coworker – which ended abruptly and icily – but he'd also dated a celebrity, and that had ended poorly as well. Strangely, Brena felt she understood Nick's obsession with holidays a bit better after that arc of conversation; girlfriends were people you took to family holidays and gatherings, and if he'd always had bad luck with women, he'd been going to events alone. Brena got the impression that more than a few of Nick's relationships ended on bad terms, and puzzled over why that would be. _'He seems sweet enough, now that he's settled down. Then again, given how he travels, how could he ever settle? Not just settle down, but settle for one person? The temptation has to be massive – and everywhere.'_

Discussing old matches nearly brought Brena to tears laughing; not only had Claudio suffered through horrible characters – or gimmicks, as she learned they were called – but so had Nick. She had a hard time picturing him in metallic green short-shorts, but she was beginning to understand it came with the territory of being a professional wrestler. Apparently, they were both quite talented as performers, though it took Nick some time to find a role within the company. Once he did, however, he became very well-liked backstage, with only one specific burr in his side – Stephen. There, Claudio was cautious, and Brena suspected there was more to that story than he let on.

It was only when Deaglan's rapid head-turning changed to a slightly lolling tilt that the two decided to head back to the room. They'd managed their way through the cafeteria, the courtyard, past the PT room, along the labs, laundry, and kitchen areas, and were now rolling past the loading docks and supply-stock area of the facility. Brena swore their path would take them back toward the cafeteria, and Claudio couldn't wipe the look of surprise from his face when the room appeared down the hall.

"Fraulein, you know this place too well." Claudio was half-teasing, but was also both surprised and impressed by how well she understood the maze-like hallways of the massive facility.

"Unfortunately, mo chara." Brena elbowed Claudio gently. "You know, Nick's going to feel left out; I don't have a pet name for him. Meredith calls him Prince Blondie – among other things."

"No, Fraulein," Claudio lowered his voice as he turned Deaglan in the hall, aware the man had finally dropped off to sleep, "I think you are the first time in a very long time that Nick has felt...brought in."

* * *

Nattie - I've got plans for Stephen, no worries. Angry Mayo. Your reviews always keep me on point; you cut right to the heart of things. I'm glad to see the summaries; they tell me I'm keeping things on track.

Eyeliner - And so much love for you! You're my girl. I'm glad you're liking the dynamic I have going on; since it's me, I've gotta put a twist in it, tho... And you missed the blue reference, you naughty thing. ::pokepoke:: I hope things in classes settle down for you - I don't like seeing my boo stressed out. Don't they know they're dealing with a stylist-genius?

Willow - I lost my shit laughing at the idea of Steph The Kindergarten Teacher declaring it crafts-and-cards time! The dynamic and issues between Meredith and Brena (about Nick) gets explained a bit more, no worries. I was aiming for, "Brena never talks to anyone about herself, but she's suddenly talking to the guy who was a complete dickwad to her? What's changed in Brena?" Hopefully I don't miss the mark on that again. Also, Cesaredith? Dolena? I'm trying to come up with shipper-names, and it's amusing me. I'm glad you thought it was amazing, even with the misstep on Meredith's phone call/monologue.

Mom2 - OH NO! Are you okay? What happened to your ankle? I'm glad you've got reading material *winkwink* Hopefully my updates on this will come much faster. My muse decided to lock herself in the bedroom with a bottle of tequila, not come out, and have a temper tantrum. I've had to shake her a bit to get things going.

Em - thank you SO MUCH for sticking with this story, even though I've been lax about author-acknowledgements. I appreciate all the time that you put into my writing, and your reviews are letting me know where I need to work on clarity and brevity. Seriously, thank you, thank you, thank you. I try to approach every review not just as "Ooh, gimme complimentz!" but also as an opportunity to learn. Also, I hope your summer settles down and gives you some free time! Summer is supposed to be all about relaxing. Have a margarita on me! (I'm a sucker for tequila.)

Captain - Sorry I didn't write you in sooner; I'm hoping you're still following along. I appreciate your review and the time you put into it; not every author is as lucky as I am to have such dedicated R/R'ers.

For everyone out there who's continued to read, follow, favorite, etc, despite my slow-arsed self: Please, do keep the comments, clicks, whatever - keep 'em coming! It lets me know what I'm doing right, and I'm ALWAYS open to being told what I'm doing wrong. I don't shriek back at people who criticize, since I know you're all respectful. I appreciate all of your time and effort in reading, and I promise, the payoff is coming.

And for those of you tempted to lurk, even a single line saying, "Not bad. Didn't suck." is appreciated. I promise.


	12. Mo Trodaire

Brena walked Claudio to the door and hugged him warmly, a gesture he eagerly reciprocated. Her ginger perfume lingered with him long after he left, with several of his friends and coworkers asking him about it at the hotel. He shrugged off their questions, simply saying he'd been out, and spent the rest of the night rolling the pieces of Brena around in his mind. She was kind, as Nick had said, as well as patient, and absolutely single-minded about Deaglan's care. It concerned him; what would she do with herself when Deaglan was gone? _'Why would her answer even matter? Nick is correct; the woman has an effect on people. On him.'_

* * *

Nick was forcing himself to stay awake; he'd been back in his room nearly two hours before Brena reappeared with Deaglan, and he'd been given oral triazolam before the MRI. Despite Meredith's assurances that he would be relaxed during the MRI and likely dead to the world asleep afterward, the medication didn't do much for him but loosen his mind. Not to mention, he was restless and fidgety during the procedure and was sure Dr. Morgan would ask for it to be repeated when he returned. While he laid in bed and waited for Brena to come back, he shuffled the letters and cards back and forth, trying to see who had written and whose names were absent. It surprised him to see Briana in the pile and he idly wondered if he'd find anything from Nicole; it was no shock at all to see Stephen was absent. "Probably for the better," he muttered, not knowing that Claudio had cherry-picked certain letters out of the heap and given them to Brena. He yawned heavily, and stretched. "Meredith said this shit wears off in five hours. How long – no, Nick. Shut up. You still can't tell time and you shouldn't talk to yourself."

Looking at the pile of paper in his hands and half-wondering how it got there, Nick began to sort through his correspondence in earnest. On top was a card from Briana and Bryan. They were both sympathetic to Nick's plight, and he knew without looking that there would be a long note from Bryan included in what they'd sent. Stephen was absent from the heap, which was unsurprising. John's card was oversized and wrapped in a lime-green envelope; Nick could imagine that the card was one from his own Hallmark greeting line and would be filled with one-liners about keeping his chin up and looking on the bright side. Saraya had doodled silver hearts on a black envelope, and Nick idly wondered if the card she sent was somehow Halloween-themed. Beyond that, it was intensely hard for him to focus on the cards and letters, and he tossed them toward the foot of the bed, scattering them across his quilt. He simultaneously felt everything and nothing, high and sober, but above all, acutely, painfully lonely.

However, what Nick didn't know what that some pieces of his mail had been removed and hidden away with Brena. First on Claudio's list to pull out was a card from Nicole. Her gesture was unexpected; they hadn't ended on good terms. Claudio half-wondered if she'd been told to send him something, or if her sister had forced her to be civil. He was sure, however, that the card she'd selected, and whatever she did or didn't write, would give Brena a clue about how they'd functioned – or not functioned – as a relationship. Kofi had sent a letter, as did Paul and Stephanie. Other than Claudio, Kofi was one of Nick's closest friends backstage and they had similar senses of humor, which hopefully was displayed in the letter. Paul and Stephanie's letter was a difficult third choice for Claudio; their letter could go either direction in terms of being beneficial to Brena. It could be completely contract-related and therefore useless, or it could be supportive and encouraging in relation to his career. Finally, Claudio had put Catherine's letter in the stack he gave to Brena. While their relationship was entirely fictitious, Claudio's hoped she might offer some female insight that was warmer than Nicole's.

* * *

Brena ended up delaying herself; not only had Nick been back in the room well before Claudio left – meaning, their walk around the building could have been spent, at least partially, with Nick – she stopped to talk to Meredith after walking Claudio out. Meredith spent most of the conversation teasing her about her newly-formed harem of men. Brena was just as excited about the possibility of friendships and was over the moon that she and Claudio had traded phone numbers – Brena framed it as his being concerned about Nick, though Meredith raised an eyebrow and smiled a Cheshire-Cat smile. Brena couldn't tell if Meredith was trying to set her up, tease her, or was simply happy to see her being more social. It didn't matter; her life had room in it for a relationship with exactly one man – Deaglan. _'Not that I'm complaining about having friends, mind you. These two, at least, seem comfortable with the idea of ailments and injuries, probably thanks to their work. Never thought I'd be thankful for a concussion. Deaglan is the only one I have to to be emotional over, though.'_

Brena planned on returning to the room to consider her options with Nick's mail; she assumed he'd still be firmly lodged in the MRI lab. While Claudio had said it would be fine – beneficial, even – for Brena to read the contents of the correspondence, she still felt awkward about the idea. It felt like snooping, and Nick had been kind enough not to be overly-nosy with her. Everything he knew was the direct result of Brena volunteering information on her own. Meredith called to her one last time before she went in Deaglan's room, saying they should get together after her shift and talk for a bit, even if it was just in the staff lounge. Brena shrugged, but agreed. _'I let it slip that I have Claudio's phone number, I wonder if she'll ask me for it. Oh well, it'll be good for Meredith. Much as she teases me about my lack of a social life, she's here quite a bit herself. Maybe we both need a night out?'_

* * *

The disinhibiting properties of triazolam were ultimately what led Nick to bolt upright in his bed as soon as Brena walked in, and then begin a rapid-fire string of questions aimed at her. Largely nonsensical, she gave up on understanding him and instead tried to wave him silent while she got Deaglan prepared for bed. Wheeling him into the bathroom, she brought him back out wearing pajamas and smelling of toothpaste and mouthwash – Nick could pick up on the mint from his bed, and it left him sorely wishing he had gum. _'I used to always chew gum during matches. Claudio said it was gross, nobody in the crowd wanted that landing on them, but I thought it was kinda cool on film. It looked like I got teeth knocked out, it helped sell things. Maybe Brena should wat- no, wait a minute! I'm not done with you, yet!'_

"No, I'm not gonna shush, I'm gonna talk to you! Where were you? I missed you!" Nick picked up as though Brena was still in the doorway waving him silent, and not as though she'd just come out of the bathroom with her half-asleep uncle. Deaglan half-growled at Nick, and he lowered his volume considerably before continuing. "I mean, not, like _missed_ you, but Claudio was here to see me, and, and, then this bullshit MRI, and this wasn't fair!" _'Nope. I just miss-missed you. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Nemeth, you're such an idiot.'_

Brena started to laugh but caught herself, opting for a choked guffaw, and eased Deaglan into his bed. She ended up half-falling forward over him when Nick's pillow caught her solidly across the back, knocking her over the bed. She managed to catch herself in time, hearing the pillow fall to the floor. Slowly, she turned to pick it up and then clutched it to her chest. As was becoming her norm when Nick had a fit of any sort, she walked toward him, not away from him, returning his pillow gently to his lap. True to current form, he picked it up and swatted her with it again, hitting her hard enough to cause her to step back, taking the pillow with her.

 _'That was dumb, Nemeth. It smelled like ginger again, and you just threw it away.'_ Nick banged his feet against the mattress, and crushed his eyes shut. _'This feels like that night everything came apart in my mind. Mouthwash shouldn't remind me of wrestling. If Meredith knew I hit Brena, even with a pillow, she'd...I don't even wanna think about what she'd do. It would be the opposite of nursing. Like murdering.'_

"Okay, Nick. You've got my attention, now look at me. Did you get some medication before your MRI?" Brena pushed the pillow back into his lap and held it there, not wanting to get swatted again. Even in a less-coordinated, basically inebriated state, he still had enough aim and strength to be dangerous with, of all things, a pillow, and Brena leaned as heavily over him as she could without sitting directly on him, though she was trying desperately for eye contact.

"Yeah, but that's not the point! The point is, you were gone! You were gone all fucking day!" Nick was practically hissing at Brena, and she was immensely grateful he'd kept his volume low, rather than loud enough to bring Meredith to the room.

"And I'm here now, Nick. Claudio and I couldn't go with you to the MRI lab. I had Deaglan with me, and Claudio isn't...well, I won't say he's not family to you, but the facility wouldn't allow something like that." Brena felt Nick try to move the pillow out of his lap, and she pressed down firmly. "Claudio said he'll be back tomorrow. Plus, he said you've got some sort of media engagement coming up, which will get you out of here at least temporarily. Those are good things."

 _'Oh, fuck me. No, fuck them. Fuck them, because I don't want a media engagement. I want more lasagna.'_ Nick snatched the pillow violently out from under Brena's hands. She was precariously off-balance, and ended up landing across Nick's lap. He threw the pillow across the room, frisbee-style, though was kind enough not to arc it over Deaglan's bed. "The stupid media...thing...that's part of the problem! Claudio is part of the problem! This whole fucking _day_ was part of the prob-"

Nick paused, watching Brena try to determine where to place her hands to brace herself up off of him. Yanking the pillow forward while she pressed it into his lap had pulled her arms out from under her, taking her shoulders along for the ride. _'You're really warm, and you smell like almonds, and I probably just hurt you. Nemeth, just ask Meredith for the keys to the roof. You can jump off of it while you're up there, instead of finishing out rehab. Just finish yourself out. '_ At that, Nick jolted, trying to determine if his mind had really meant what it just told the rest of him, that he should actually jump off the top of a rather tall building. Shaking his head, trying to clear some of the fog from the triazolam, Nick closed his hands over the tops of Brena's shoulders, and lifted her up from his lap. _'Not that I want to, because you smell pretty. And you're nice to me, and now I'm pretty sure we're back to square one. Or minus that, because you're probably not gonna talk to me anymore. Or come anywhere near me. Tell people I'm really the jackass everyone thinks I am. Whatever. I fucked up good.'_

"I'm sorry you couldn't spend more time with Claudio, Nick," Brena was quiet, organizing her bulky hooded sweatshirt around her, though her hair hung raggedly down over her eyes. She hadn't tried reaching for it, and Nick worried her shoulders really had gone out on her. "He promised he'd be back tomorrow. Deaglan and I were fine, this afternoon. Just a little late, that's all. If I had known it would be so upsetting to you, I would have asked Meredith to tell you after I called the desk." She shook her hair back, then walked across the room to retrieve his pillow, dusting it off and gesturing at him to lean forward. Brena slid the pillow into place behind him and gently guided him back against it, ignoring the wet snap in her left shoulder, and taking the time to pull the quilt up over him. "Mostly, though, I'm sorry you felt alone. It wasn't anyone's intention." Turning, she checked the pitcher of water at his bedside, and went into his bathroom to refill it. Nick looked stunned when Brena walked away, as though she had slapped him instead of apologize.

When she returned, Brena pulled out the letters Claudio had given her and put them on the edge of Nick's bed, then set about pouring a glass of water for him. Deaglan's snoring was light and steady, unaffected by the palpable tension on the other half of the room.

"Hey, uh, Brena, listen...I'm-"

"I'm back to Heyabrena? That almost feels like a demotion, Nick."

The stress that filled Nick drained instantly, and he felt lightheaded with relief and medication. _'Okay. Okay, go easy. She's...not mad? She's being Brena.'_ "No, not a demotion. Just...just what I call you, sometimes, I guess. And I'm sorry. Are your shoulders oka-"

"Here, Claudio gave these to me. He said I should read them, but it feels awkward. I thought I'd ask you first?" Brena cut him off before he could worry further. He shoulders _weren't_ okay, but she also knew the drill with MRIs. Nick, already too restless for his own good, had likely been given something to calm him, and it had pushed past 'calming' and into 'completely disinhibiting.'

Nick paused, head cocked to the side, confusion written across his face. "Wait, he wanted you to read my cards and shit?" He blinked a few times, then snorted. "Like, read them _to_ me? Like, he thought I wouldn't be able to?"

"No, he seemed to think they'd help me understand you. To be honest, I'm not sure what he's trying for. He knew you hadn't told me much about yourself."

"Did you _want_ to know anything about me?" Confusion changed to shock. "I mean, not like _that_ , not like you're being bitchy, but..." He stopped abruptly, trying to consider his words. "It's just most people don't ask? Like...whatever I am on TV, that's what people think is me."

"Nick, I _don't_ know you from TV. I know you from the bed across the room. You're a...well, you're..." Brena threw her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "You're an athlete. Performer. You're single and haven't had the best luck in relationships. Christmas is your favorite holiday, and tuna sandwiches are off the menu. You've got a terrific sense of humor. Some of that I know from you; most of that I know from Claudio."

"Oh. So you guys...talked." Nick sounded crestfallen, and Brena looked utterly confused at his tone.

"Well...yes, Nick? We didn't just stare at each other for hours til he had to leave." Nick rolled his eyes as his face soured, and Brena laughed. "Oh, good grief." She shoved his shoulder playfully, earning another pop from hers, and Nick snatched at her hand. Brena quieted considerably, surprised at both the speed with which he moved to grab her, and the strength with which he held her still. She could feel the guilt radiating off his skin where they touched. Brena regarded him carefully before she continued, but made no motion to take her hand back. "Nick...you could be happy about it, if you wanted. Usually, I don't talk to anyone here. Not in any meaningful way, anyway, but Claudio is your friend. I felt if you trusted him, If you were comfortable with him...then I could be comfortable with him. So, yes, we talked. A bit about Deaglan, a lot about you. He was quite flattering, and frankly, I don't think I even know how to start a conversation like that anymore. If I wanted to ask _you_ those things, I would have been as awkward as a girl in middle school."

Feeling his eyes getting heavy, Nick shook his head again, trying to fight back the triazolam. "I don't get it. You talked to him because I'm cool with him? I thought Meredith said you don't talk to people."

Brena sighed heavily, and Nick squeezed her hand. Reflexively, Brena squeezed back, blushing lightly. _'Well, that was silly. Don't confuse the poor man, he's trying to make it up to you, and he's clearly medicated.'_ "That's the point I'm trying to make, Nick. I suppose I'm being as awkward as I thought I'd be." She extracted her hand from his, slid from the side of the bed, and pulled the edge of Nick's quilt down over him. Thinking, Brena passed him the glass of water she'd long-ago filled and forgotten about. "You made me realize I have to let go a bit more."

Nick sipped at his water, quiet, and waited for her to continue. He was even more lost in the conversation than she was, and decided to keep his mouth shut until Brena sorted herself out. Clearly, she was trying to tell him something, trying to reassure him, but sounding desperately like she was trying to reassure herself of something, as well.

Almost without thinking, Brena sat back on the edge of Nick's bed. He crept his glass of water out of both hands and over into one, reaching out for her hand again. She didn't move to meet him, but she didn't work to avoid his grasp, either, and he was much more gentle when he finally clutched her hand.

"Nick, it's that I'm running out of things to hold on to."

He startled, his water splashing around and popping up in the glass. "Okay," he said quietly, "Okay, now I really don't follow you."

"Deaglan and Hazel raised me. Loved me. When my parents left – and heaven only knows where they went – the day they left, that was that. That was the last time I saw or heard from them. I even asked my aunt and uncle when I was older, if my parents had ever tried to write or call. Deep down, I knew Deaglan and Hazel would never have kept them from me, but it was something I had to hear. I had to know they'd really just left, that...well, that was it."

Nick nodded, but tried to keep himself completely still otherwise. Her thumb rolled back and forth across the back of his hand, and the heat was causing a pleasant, small cloud of scent from her almond lotion to raise up around them, mingling with her ginger and leaf-smoke, half-making him drowsy.

"This isn't making sense, is it?" Brena's shoulders slumped. "I don't have parents to hold on to. Deaglan and Hazel were my parents, and then Hazel died and there was no time to mourn her because Deaglan needed me to settle her affairs, and then he just _needed_ me. I had to make a choice between my job and my friends, or the one person, one part of my family, that I had left. It wasn't much of a choice; I love him. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him and Hazel, I'd likely as not have been lost in the state foster care system, and then who knows what. So...I don't have a social life to hold on to, to be a part of. Once Deaglan is gone – and that could be tomorrow, that could be ten years from now – who will I have? Just myself. If it wasn't for you and that ridiculous lasagna..." Brena trailed off, clearing her throat harshly.

"Did I fuck up, with dinner?" Nick was nearly inaudible. "I didn't wanna upset you."

"No, Nick, dinner was fine. It...it was something I needed, I think. It made me realize something I was ignoring for quite some time."

"Oh...uh...what's that?" He flexed his fingers around his hand again; her thumb hadn't stopped moving back and forth across his. _'How do I get away with being an asshole, all the time, with you? Why do you let me get away with it? I was doing so much better, too, what the fuck happened?'_

"I've got to learn to hold on to other things. Even Claudio said, friends are an invaluable asset. I'm doing everything I can for Deaglan; there's nothing I _can_ do anymore, besides love him. Having you here...I feel like I can do something for you. And, you help me, too. While I'd never wish an injury on anyone, I'm thankful...well, no. That doesn't sound very good, either. I'm not thankful you were hurt. It's just...it's been a good thing that the timing was what it was. You know, that you're here with me. With Deaglan. He enjoys your company very much, and you've helped me more than you think."

 _'Okay, someone slipped her some pills, too. She did not just say that. I know I'm high, maybe I didn't hear her right.'_ Nick reached across himself to try to put down his glass of water; succeeding instead in getting Brena to let go of his hand and complete the motion for him. _'Dammit, Nemeth. Good work. You couldn't just hold the stupid glass?'_ "Brena, there's no way I did anything for you besides be a pain in the fucking ass. I keep doing shit I have to apologize for. I shouldn't have hit you with the pillow, I shouldn't have fucked up your shoulders like that, I shouldn-"

"Oh, for heaven's sa-"

"I know, I know. 'Nick, stop,' right? You think I apologize too much, but you never _accept_ the apologies anyway."

"Nick, that's because you never have to offer them. You're probably medicated to the gills right now." Brena ruffled his hair, making a frizzled mess of the blonde bits and snagging her fingers in his much darker roots, trying to lighten the heavy tone of their conversation. "You also need a deep conditioning and a root touch-up, or else just to go back to your natural color. All part of the job, right?" _'I think you understand what I just meant. If you did and you're being kind enough not to push me on it, thank you. If you didn't...well...it was nice to just say it. I'm learning, just like you.'_

"Nice topic change, Heyabrena. You gonna untangle that mess you just made?"

"Well, it beats reading your mail." Her smile was watery, but something in her eyes seemed pleased.

"Nope, you're gonna do that too. You think I can focus on all that neon-green-glittery shit?" He snorted. "Grab the letters. Let's read all of them." Nick winced at himself; he was being demanding and he knew it.

Brena's tone was airy and bright, and she wrapped her other hand around Nick's as she held it, pressing it between hers, the heat and fragrance so intense Nick could almost feel it pulse against him. "Deal, as long as you tell me about the people who wrote them. You managed to get in my head; I'd like to rent out a bit of space in yours."

Nick pressed his lips tightly shut; willing his mouth to not jump ahead of his brain and common sense. "I'll try. I'm not gonna make sense, though. I think I'm high."

Giggling, Brena leaned in toward him to whisper, half-teasing and half-earnest. "Nick, you most _assuredly_ are high. Welcome to the wonderful world of benzodiazapenes, mo trodaire!"

He had to force himself not to move, not to breathe, not to do anything idiotic; he begged his body to fight time and space just to prolong the moment. Brena, still holding his hand, had pulled it toward her hip as she sat on the bed, and he was mere inches from being able to touch the soft, worn fabric of her jeans. Her breath was warm on his cheek, and he could tell she'd had coffee recently – not quite the amazingly chocolatey blend he'd had with his cinnamon roll, but still pleasant. The ginger and almonds and smoke from her perfume, weaving together around them in the air, pressed down against him the same way her fingers wrapped around his palm – all warmth and reassurance, a sweetness there wasn't a word for and something he wanted to unfold and study, run his fingers over like it was a delicate, fragile thing.

When she leaned back and began to work at the edge of an envelope, Nick exhaled so slowly he could barely tell if he was still breathing. _'Ginger and almonds. And coffee-smoke, too. Don't move, Brena. Please, just don't move.'_

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone who reviewed - CaptainBart, Em, Willow, Nattie, Mom2, Eyeliner - you're what keeps me going! I appreciate all of the time you put into my story - it means the world to me._

And, thank you to all of my silent lurkers. While I'd love to hear from you, I also appreciate your support and continued readership.


	13. An Invading Irish Army Of One

Knowing the concussion awareness media blitz was marching ever-closer on the calendar didn't make it any easier for Nick to stomach. Stephen hadn't called after his initial contact, but Talent Relations had been on the line so many times that Brena finally took pity on him and explained how to mute the ringer on his bedside phone. It served two purposes; Nick was happier without the phone blasting in his ear all day, and Deaglan wasn't irked by the constant trilling.

Nick worked tirelessly to keep his irritation at bay; each phone call was a sign that his tour of duty with Stephen was nearing, even though he'd managed to put off the actual work til well into June. He snapped at Brena more than a few times, usually annoyed that she'd gone out with Deaglan and he'd lost his company for the day, and picked meaningless arguments with Meredith that always resulted in his getting a Vistaril in order to calm down. He'd also decided to stop going to the facility's therapist, though he assumed he was buying himself more time in lockdown with that maneuver.

His hesitance and then outright refusal to go to therapy was a direct result of both the upcoming media work and the terrifying thought that popped into his head the night he and Brena read his letters together. Nick had felt so like human clutter that he'd broadly contemplated suicide. He didn't know if it was a result of the medication he'd been given that night, or if his brain was truly starting to fall to pieces in his head, and he hadn't known what to _do_ with what he thought – though he certainly didn't want to be asked about it. Nick had only half-listened as Brena read his letters to him that night – his mind kept floating back to that singular mental lapse. As Brena spoke, he leaned in every so often and breathed in her perfume, feeling somehow safer in her scent than outside it. She'd let him hold her hand while she read, and before long he was asleep. Brena curled into Deaglan's side that night, thinking of Hazel, Deaglan, and Nick, Claudio and Meredith, and not at all of herself.

* * *

Brena watched Nick's mood gnarl in over itself, grow tighter and more combustible as his event with Stephen approached. She'd suggested he ask his company to limit him to a single date at first, to see how he felt afterward, but Nick said they'd want a series, not a show. Behind Nick's back, she went to Dr. Morgan and asked him to call and try to organize a reprieve. Brena didn't have a good feeling about Nick and the media event, not that she could put her finger on why – she just knew it was too much for him, whatever the reason, and she suspected Stephen had something to do with it. She had no idea that the rest of it was rooted in his realization that the media tour was pushing him closer and closer to a public discussion of the effects of concussions, one of which he was suffering silently and in horror. Nick refused to talk about his thoughts with Brena, not knowing if Deaglan had ever entertained similar ideas of an early end, and not wanting to worry her.

Nick's wretched mood wasn't Brena's only clue that there was a problem. She'd caught him shuffling and reshuffling his letters and cards one afternoon, muttering that of course the big Irish jackass hadn't apologized – and then promptly apologizing to Brena for referring to the Irish as jackasses. A quick call to Claudio filled in the blanks for her, and in ways she wasn't thrilled with. Stephen had been out, injured, for quite some time before Nick came to Magee. When he returned to competition, he was sloppy and aggressive. Brena knew that much; it was Stephen's in-ring work that brought Nick to Magee in the first place. What she didn't know was why the animosity between the two men existed. Nick made the comment that other performers who did maneuvers that were much more high-risk were somehow much less prone to injury than Stephen, though he was at least smart enough not to make the comment directly to him – the implication being, if Stephen worked clean and improved his strength and coordination, he'd be spending less time on his sofa. Somehow Stephen had found out, and then made it his mission to aggravate and insult Nick every chance he got. Everything from wardrobe to relationships were fair game, and he refused to back down, even after Nick approached him and tried to explain what he meant – and even offered to work out with him. Rather than finding Nick's explanation satisfactory, it only fanned the flames. The storyline they'd ended up in together gave Stephen an opportunity to be intentionally dangerous, and he took full advantage.

Clearly, things between the two hadn't settled, and Brena vaguely recalled Nick saying something to Stephen on the phone about not speaking to her, but the call had happened so long ago that she couldn't quite remember the context. The first – and now only, thanks to Dr. Morgan – media event was in a week's time, putting it solidly into the pressurized city-heat of June. She tried to both give Nick space and be available, but nothing helped, so Brena decided to simply wait til he came to her. In the meantime, she paged through his letters when he wasn't in the room, trying to parse more meaning from what his coworkers had written.

The night she read Nick's letters with him, he'd clung to her hand. The medication from his MRI had done a number on him, and Brena marveled at how quickly he reverted to the same behaviors and emotions that he'd shown when he first came in. She was hopeful that the letters would calm him, but Claudio's choices had somewhat the opposite effect on her. Nicole's letter was, much as Claudio described their relationship, icy. She opened by chiding him for being careless, and Brena felt her fingers begin to tense as she read. Following that, Nicole said it was 'quieter' at work without him, a line that made Nick chuckle, but Brena sensed malice in it. There was no mention of their relationship, not that Brena expected there to be one, but the whole tone of the letter was distant and bored – it smacked of Nicole being so thoroughly over him that she was beyond the idea of caring about him as even a person, never mind the generally convivial tone that most people took with their coworkers.

Kofi's card contained a note that was much warmer. He recounted some of their backstage hijinks, some highlights of Nick's matches, and assured him he'd be back to fighting shape in no time. Brena appreciated the optimism, though she knew full well there hadn't been any discussion of his return to work – or if he could return to work. Dr. Morgan and Nick didn't seem capable of having quiet conversations with each other; it was hard for Brena to _not_ know about Nick's work status. It wasn't off the table, but another severe blow to the head could end things for Nick, personally and professionally. It would be one thing to lose his job, Brena reasoned, but to lose his memories or continue to suffer the jumble of thoughts he experienced when he was admitted seemed as though it could break him. Thoughts of what Deaglan might have experienced crossed her mind, and she worked hard to push them away as she read aloud that night, willing her voice to stay steady.

Paul and Stephanie wrote a nearly-historical account of Nick's career – or at least, someone had – the ink used for their signatures didn't match the ink used for the rest of the letter. It gave Brena an idea of what he'd done and not done while at the company, as well as what his expectations would be when he returned. While she was pleased that the assumption was that Nick _would_ return whole and healthy, the letter smacked of two disinterested parents writing largely to shore up and chronicle their belief that they'd created a model child. Brena wrinkled her nose at the letter; it was written more to make the people writing it feel better. Nick shrugged; for him, that was the Paul-And-Stephanie-Combo he was used to. Brena had taught enough dance classes, when she was working, to know the joy was in the experience and not the outcome, and found Paul and Stephanie to be disappointing in their roles – Nick explained they had not only performed, but also currently owned parts of the company and at times, mentored the talent. _'You'd think they'd make an effort to know the people who work for them. And not just in a biographical, bullet-point fashion, either.'_ Brena kept her opinions to herself, and carried on reading.

Catherine's – CJ, Nick had corrected – card was a brilliant way to end; Claudio had chosen well. She was warm and funny, and as Brena later found out through a quick Google search on her phone, stunningly beautiful. She'd written a full page, front and back, in deeply black ink and intensely prim handwriting, about how much she missed Nick, couldn't wait to get back to their storyline, and wanted him to be healing and doing well. Her concern was radiating from the page, and she'd tucked it into an ornate, jewel-toned card printed in what Brena assumed was an Eastern-bloc language. She couldn't read it, and neither could Nick, but he did tell Brena that CJ was Latvian by way of several other nations. Brena felt better, after reading CJ's card. Someone in that tangled ball of yarn known as the WWE cared about Nick. Kofi's card was friendly, to be sure, but it was also brotherly, the sort of thing you'd expect to be accompanied by a teasing punch to the shoulder. CJ was plainly genuine in her writing, and had a definite investment in Nick. Strangely, he'd told Brena more than once that she was seeing another wrestler, a detail that Brena couldn't figure out the importance of, but was glad to file away mentally since Nick felt it was pertinent.

* * *

The day of the event, Nick was sullen. He had to wait until a driver came to get him; he didn't know where the event would be held, or where he had to go in order to prep for it once he arrived. His hair was still a shambles, he hadn't been able to put any clothing together that was suitable, and he knew Stephen would be there – wherever _there_ was – waiting for him. He wanted to bury himself in Brena's quilt and refuse to move. Still, off he went, pausing at the nurses' station only to receive a dismissive wave of a hand from Meredith after she gave him pills to take with him for the day.

 _'So much for you coming up with something to keep me here. Shit, you're probably gonna dance a jig as soon as I'm out the door.'_ Nick skulked down the hall, passing the cafeteria and idly debating whether or not he should grab a sandwich before he left, in case there was no catering.

"Nick, please wait!" Brena, at as high a speed she could muster, was headed down the hall toward Nick, Deaglan's wheelchair in front of her. He looked bright and happy, a smile on his face, and he kept turning to try to see Brena – a gesture that, to Nick, almost looked like he was willing her to hurry up.

"I gotta run, Bren. What's up?" _'Nemeth, don't act like you wouldn't stand here for a week if she asked you to.'_

"Er, nothing really." She flustered for a second, searching out words, while Deaglan went for the direct route and swiped at Nick's hand. "Well, that's not true. I told Deaglan you'd be gone for the day, and he was...well, surly, to be honest. I wanted to catch you before you left. Could you tell him you'll be back later? Maybe he needs to hear it from you."

Cracking half a smile, Nick slowly crouched down to face Deaglan, resting his hands on his knees and marveling at how bony he felt even under flannel pajama pants and a robe. "It's okay, ol' man. Your girl's right, I'll be back later." Deaglan brought his hands down on top of Nick's, digging his fingers in with as much force as he could muster, and Nick had to drop a knee to the floor to keep his balance.

"Uncle Deaglan! Gentle, please. What on earth has gotten in to you?" Brena crouched down next to Nick and began untangling Deaglan's fingers from Nick's, trying to use no more force than necessary. "I'm sorry, Nick, I thought this would settle him down a bit, but it looks like he's just all out of sorts today."

"Bren, it's fine." He turned as much as he could to look at her, and his smile fell to a frown as he scanned her face. She was haggard and gaunt; he'd been so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn't noticed Brena falling apart, whatever her reason. "Hey, uh, Brena, when I get back-"

"Heyabrena?" Brena clutched both of Deaglan's hands in one of hers, gesturing for Nick to move back before she released her uncle. "You'll have to do better than that, mo trodaire." She smiled, and for just a second Nick felt the floor tilt under him, though he wasn't sure why.

"Not fair. I don't know what that means." He stood, reaching down for Brena once he felt sure on his feet. "When I get back, why don't we have dinner again? This shindig doesn't run _that_ late, I don't think."

"You don't look happy about going, either." Brena looked down the hallway to the nurses' station, then back to Nick. "Do you have your phone on you?"

"Yeah, but I already have the hospital number. Why?" He pulled it out of the back pocket of his jeans anyway, not sure where Brena was going with her train of thought.

"Here, take my number. Deaglan and I are staying in this afternoon. It's too hot for him, and he's...too moody, right now. If it does run late and you don't feel well, if you need to get a hold of Dr. Morgan, if...well, if anything. Just, here. Take it." She tapped at the screen as though the matter had been settled; she wasn't asking him to take her number as much as she was telling him this was happening and that was that. When she passed his phone back to him, she nearly slapped it through his palm.

 _'Did she...I've got...okay, what?'_ "Slow down, Bren. You're all over the place right now."

"Nick, you haven't wanted to go to this media...concussion...thing...ever since you found out about it. You've been edgy and grouchy and just...here, fine. Never mind. It was stupid." Brena tried to reach for his phone again, presumably to take her number out, but he slid it back into his pocket. She stamped her foot out of frustration, completely out of character.

"Brena, seriously," Nick continued, "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing, Nick. I mean, not nothing, but..." Brena closed her hands over the tops of Deaglan's shoulders. "I don't know what to do with him, today. He's so irritable. I thought seeing you would help, but he doesn't want you to leave, either."

 _'Either? Well that's interesting.'_ "I'll be back quick, Bren. No worries. And if I start to feel off, I'll call you. Okay?"

Brena shook her head and sighed, but waved him toward the door. "I know you'll be fine, Nick. Doesn't mean I can't worry." He took a few steps away from her, but before he could turn to continue his walk to the door, she'd wrapped her arms around him, somehow there and then gone before he could return the gesture, pushing Deaglan away down the hall, though he'd started flapping his arms and grunting like some sort of angry, chair-bound bird.

* * *

The event was miserable. The sun was glaring directly down on them; even though they were indoors, their table had been set facing a bank of windows. The whole thing felt like a fishbowl in an oven. Stephen hadn't spoken _to_ him as much as _at_ him, cutting him off mid-sentence as many times as he could, and generally making the entire event about him when it should have focused more on safety, health, and professionalism. Nick's mind wandered, as Stephen droned on, to the time he spent with Stephen before the event started, and he crunched his plastic water bottle between his fingers.

 _'You still have that pretty-sounding lass in your room? Tell me you've moved her into your bed, Nicky, or I'm gonna start to wonder that it's your dick and not your head that's broken.'_

 _'Shut the fuck up with that, Stephen.' Nick's voice was down to a growl, 'It's not like that, and her uncle is in the next fucking bed in the room.'_

 _'Ah, so then y'have entertained the idea! Well, if you can't close the deal, maybe I will. Dinner, drinks, dancing, whatever the lady likes to do, and then I can give ya a full accounting when I'm done.'_

 _'She wouldn't do...she won't...Stephen, just leave her the fuck alone. You're not coming back to Magee, you're not meeting her, it's done. She's not your type.'_

 _'My type lays down and says yes, Nicky. Since when did you grow some standards, eh? You used to date that fat blonde thing, y'don't exactly have taste, y'know. The fact you're_ not _fucking this one tells me there's something there.'_

 _'Even if there is, you asshole, it's not something you're gonna get.'_

 _Stephen roared with laughter. 'An' what're ya gonna do about it, Nicky? Ye can't walk a fuckin' straight line right now. Ye can't drive a car. If ya drank, the pills ya just took would probably kill ya. That takes dinner, drinks, an' dancin' right off the table for ye, so what're ya gonna give her? Yer a fuckin' mess. Try me, Nicky. Try an' fuckin' stop me.' Nick scrambled to hide the pharmacy bottles he'd had to take with him, his medication a condition of leaving the building, and glared at Stephen._

 _'She's not there for you,' Nick whispered, after Stephen had walked off with one of the girls from hair and makeup. 'She's just...Brena.' He grabbed his phone, took the screen lock off, and brought up Brena's number, hovering his thumb over the large, green button that he knew would bring her voice to life, bubbling and warm – and then dimmed the screen. 'Get it together, Nemeth. Go out there and get this shit done.'_

* * *

The event wound down with a photograph and autograph session that left Nick's head spinning; the camera flashes were startling and disorienting. He wished sorely he'd taken the time to call Brena, though he knew he wouldn't have been able to hide the discomfort in his voice. His driver pulled one too many jerking start-and-stop maneuvers on the way back to Magee, and by the time they arrived, Nick was ready to throw up – a maneuver of his own that he was glad to do behind a bulky cement trash receptacle outside the main doors.

"Not the first and won't be the last." Meredith met him at the door, offering both an unamused glare and a small towel.

"I just wanna lay down, Meredith." Nick reached for her, hoping she'd haul him upright and guide him into the building, but instead she stepped to the side, revealing a wheelchair behind her.

"Your chariot awaits, Prince Blondie. Get in, or you can walk it back on your own."

Grudgingly, Nick seated himself in the wheelchair and waited impatiently while Meredith fiddled with the footrests. She spun him around so quickly he gagged mid-motion. Nick dropped his head down as far as he could, feeling like he'd pitch out of the chair at any moment. Meredith stopped at his room and toed the door open, Nick groaning in frustration as soon as they entered the room.

* * *

"No, really, I need you to stop. I've got it." Stephen was blocking Brena from reaching Deaglan, trying to fumble through taking his gait belt off of his waist while he was in his wheelchair, and doing a terrible job of it.

"Lass, allow me. Can't have you doing all the work now, can we?" He managed the clip undone, then laughed as Brena forcibly shoved him back from Deaglan's wheelchair. She shot him a look of complete disgust, then focused on lifting the gait belt out from behind her uncle without dragging it. Her intention was to take Deaglan from the room and to any available place in the building that Stephen couldn't follow – an employee restroom stall, if it came to it – and hope that Nick returned soon. Her uncle had done nothing but flap, grunt, and wail since Stephen had been in the room, and nothing Brena said seemed to convince him that her promise hadn't been broken – Nick hadn't come back, but a strange, pale, red-headed impostor was here in his place.

"I'm sure you mean well, but Deaglan doesn't do well with strangers." _'A lie if ever there was one; he took to Nick and Claudio like a duck to water.'_ Brena adjusted her uncle in his wheelchair, trying to carefully seat him all the way back. Meanwhile, Stephen had set about moving Brena's photographs around on Deaglan's dresser, inspecting each one as though he might find a secret hidden in their content, and smearing the framed glass in the process.

"Oh, come now, Brennie. You weren't going to move him on your own. And I'm hardly a stranger, we've talked quite a bit."

 _'No, you've talked at me. You're not as much for conversation as you are for monologue.'_ Brena inhaled deeply, about to give Stephen a piece of her mind, but Meredith's voice was gunshot across the room before Brena could get words out. "And _what_ the _fuck_ is a _Brennie_? Blondie, this better not be one of your ideas, 'cause that broom closet can fit two."

"Stephen, you have about three seconds to get the fuck out of here." Nick, exhausted, was up and out of the wheelchair before he even understood how. He started rolling his sleeves up, not sure about what he'd do next, but absolutely sure that something terrible had happened in his absence. _'How the fuck did you get here ahead of me? And why the fuck are you back here? These are private rooms, and don't you dare call her Brennie again. The fuck is that?'_

Meredith lunged for Deaglan's wheelchair, having caught Brena's eyes, silently communicating that Deaglan would likely be better off outside of the room. She'd started for the door, but Deaglan threw his arms out to the sides, preventing her from taking him out. Brena, in turn, had lunged for the open floor space between Nick and Stephen, trying to slow Nick's approach. He looked as though he couldn't manage more than a nap, let alone an argument, and Stephen had made enough of a nuisance of himself that Brena knew he'd take this opportunity to peel Nick apart layer by layer.

"Okay, _everyone_ , please. Just...please. Meredith, let's leave Deaglan here. I promised him Nick would come back; I'd like to see if this calms him down. Nick, come sit down. You look like the heat's hit you twice over, and Deaglan wants to see you, anyway. And Stephen, well...I don't know, with you. This isn't the best time for a visit, clearly. My uncle isn't having a good day, and Nick doesn't look like he's feeling well."

"Ah, as caring as she is beautiful." Meredith made a not-so-subtle gagging noise, but brought Deaglan back to his bed. Seeing Nick, he craned his neck around as though he was trying to determine if the right neon-blond man had come back to the room. Brena rolled her eyes at Meredith and mouthed, 'All Visit,' jerking her head back toward Stephen.

* * *

Nobody was quite sure how Stephen had gotten back to Magee ahead of Nick, or how he'd found Nick's room, but there he was, making an annoyance of himself. He'd laid it on thick with Brena, hoping to win her affections, and was missing every sign, both subtle and overt, that she wasn't interested in him. He'd come in with flowers, which was sweet enough, and Brena appreciated the gesture though lilies weren't quite her taste. _'Field-flowers. I've always liked the little wildflowers and things that sprout up by the side of the road. Not like he could have known that, of course. The arrangement is lovely, regardless. I'll probably move it to the staff lounge; it could use a little brightening up.'_ Deaglan had growled at the flowers when Brena showed them to him, an actual, guttural growl that brought Brena to a standstill and Stephen to roaring laughter that ended with him trying to ruffle Deaglan's hair. Brena was horrified, and spent several minutes smoothing Deaglan's hair back into place and calming him. Blindly, Stephen tried conversation – a one-sided endeavor.

 _'I'm glad yeh liked the flowers, lass. Nick told me your name is Brena?'_

 _'Yes, it's Ir-'_

 _'Aye, Irish. The fairy palace. You're certainly a little enough thing to be a pixie, lass. Something I should remedy by takin' yeh out to a proper dinner.'_

 _'That's kind of y-'_

 _'I'm sure there's a – well, you're not dressed for a proper restaurant – but I'm sure there's a pub around here, eh?'_

 _'I can't leave Deag-'_

 _'What, the staff here canna watch him for a few hours? Dinner and drinks, lass, not a lifetime commitment. I'll have yeh back before the glass slippers wear out.'_

Their conversation continued like that, circular and near-pointless, Stephen listening more to himself than to anything Brena was saying, and fully ignoring her protests that she couldn't leave her uncle for such a long period of time. Each time Stephen had cut her off mid-sentence, Deaglan had growled, grunted, or wailed. By the time Nick and Meredith returned to the room, Deaglan was agitated beyond measure and Brena wasn't far behind him.

* * *

Nick staggered his way toward his bed, half-collapsing on to it, and Brena worked to ease him around so he could sit, knowing Meredith still had hold of Deaglan and was likely moving him back up to his bed as well. Once Nick found a comfortable perch on the edge of the bed, Brena knelt in front of him and began to work his shoes off his feet, trying to be reassuring. She could smell the vomit on him; he was sweaty, and his hands were shaking. _'He overdid it at the event. I didn't think he'd call – even if he did, I couldn't have helped how he felt physically – but this mess with Stephen isn't helping. I know they aren't friends; why is Stephen here?'_

"Fer God's sake, lass, up off the floor with yeh. No need to be doin' all that for Nick; he's capable." Stephen reached down and grabbed Brena under her arms, lifting her up off the floor. She winced; he hadn't picked the best angle for her shoulders.

"Stephen, please. Thank you for helping me up, but enough now. Nick needs help, an-"

"An' that's exactly what the nurses are for, lass. Surely you're not tellin' me yeh've taken a job here?"

"Didn't I fucking tell you to leave?" Acidic and terse, Nick jumped back into the conversation, trying futilely to toe his remaining shoe off his foot. Stephen still hadn't let go of Brena, and Nick was trying to glare his arms off of her body. Brena was trying to disentangle herself as well; Stephen's contact was entirely unwelcome. Behind them all, Meredith surveyed the room and its occupants, shook her head, and went out to her desk – being sure to leave the door open behind her. Deaglan, now securely in his bed with the rails up, started wailing as though death was in the room and come to claim them all.

"Calm down, Nick. And Stephen, thank you, my feet have found the floor. You can let go, now."

As soon as Stephen let go, Brena dropped back down, wresting Nick's remaining shoe from his foot and squeezing his ankles reassuringly, as if to say, _'He's not any fun for us, either. Let's figure this out.'_ Nick reached down for her hands, letting Brena adjust herself back to standing.

"A stubborn little thing you are, lass. Let's improve your disposition over a mug or two of ale. My dinner offer still stands."

Shaking her head, Brena couldn't believe Stephen's audacity. "And I've told you, I can't. It's lovely of you to offer, bu-"

"Of course yeh can, Brennie, yeh just up an' walk out o' the room. There's a whole staff here, they'll handle 'im jus' fine for the night."

 _'Brennie? Oh, good grief. I know I've given out some doozies for nicknames, but that takes the cake And when on earth did we move from dinner over to an entire night? I'm beginning to see why Nick takes issue with this man.'_ "Stephen, I'm sorry. I won't be taking you up on your offer of dinner tonight. Nick, you need water. Let me know if you can't reach the pitcher." Her words were firm, and she slid from between the men in order to try to calm Deaglan. Nick couldn't help the broad grin on his face, and Stephen frowned and shot up an irritated middle finger in response to being both mocked and shot down. Slowly, his frown slid into a sickly-evil smile; first, he realized Brena said his offer was only declined for _this_ night; second, he saw a perfect opportunity to get one over on Nick.

Stephen knew full well that Nick wasn't going to be getting out of his bed any time soon. His shoes were off, and his face was several shades of green – he was still feeling the effects of the media day. He slid Nick's pitcher of water further back on his nightstand, just to irritate him, then walked up behind Brena.

"Brennie, a willful disposition won't stop me." Stephen crept his arms forward on either side of Brena, grabbing on to the top of Deaglan's bedrail, effectively trapping her in place. He looked over his shoulder, then forced himself to stop from laughing – Nick's mouth was open, his eyes registering nothing but shock. _'Poor fucker, he doesn't know what to do. This is brilliant.'_ Stephen leaned down over Brena, brushing his face against her hair. "And what is this scent of yours, lass? Yeh are a thousand delicious things, yeh truly are." His lips were so close to Brena's cheek that she shivered. His breath moved little wisps of her hair forward, into her line of sight, and she could feel his thighs heavy behind her.

Involuntarily, she reached for Deaglan's hand and whispered, "Dad, help." _'It's a hospital, Brena, it's a public place. Nothing will happen. He's being overbearing, he probably doesn't know you're so uncomfortable, just ask him to back up. Don't put the issue on Deaglan, he's already been so agitated today. Come on, girl, get yourself together, just tell him to back up.'_

Nick barely caught her words; Stephen just chuckled. If a laugh could be a malicious sound, his was predatory and consuming, an announcement that if he wanted to, he could do damned near anything he felt like and with minimal repercussions. Nick couldn't move fast enough or with enough coordination to help, Brena was overwhelmed by Stephen's size and proximity, and Meredith wasn't in the room. Her only hope was Deaglan.

In that moment, he boiled over. Frail, elderly, nearly non-verbal, he let out a scream that brought what felt like every doctor and nurse in the building flying toward the room. Stephen froze behind Brena, and Nick took the opportunity to lunge for his pitcher of water. Stephen thought he'd shoved it far enough back that Nick couldn't reach it, a notion that was dispelled when what was easily a half-gallon of ice water rained down on his back after the thick plastic pitcher thumped heavily against the back of his head. He yelled and let go of the bedrails, jumping backwards and slipping on the ice chips, landing solidly on his ass. Brena whirled around to face him, her cheeks red with fury, Deaglan banging his hands and feet on his bed as though he meant to knock the mattress from its frame. The doctors and nurses kept piling into the room, Meredith fighting her way to the front of the crowd, trying to calm Deaglan and figure out what on earth had happened that had brought him to a frenzy and landed Stephen on the floor. She didn't have long to wait before Brena provided an answer.

"You horse's ass! You giant, overbearing idiot! You have done _nothing_ but disrupt my fa- er, my uncle, since you showed up. You've been intrusive and rude, you've been _horrible_ to Nick, and I frankly couldn't care less if you were offering to engrave my name on the Blarney Stone itself, never mind dinner."

"Well, fuck me, Brennie, I was tryin'a-"

"I don't care _what_ you were trying to do! Do you see the state my uncle's in? He's never like this! We've had hundreds of visitors and roommates in and out of this room, and you're the _only_ one who's come in here with such evil that it's put him into a fit."

"Yeh don'ave to be dramatic about it." Stephen sniffled in her general direction and tried to get his feet under him despite the ice chips now coating the floor.

"Dramatic would be if I poured Deaglan's water pitcher over your head after you're already wearing Nick's. I ought to; cooling off that libido of yours would be doing the world a favor. Though I'll say there's not much to write home about, since you were all over my legs like a stray dog. Pinning me against the bed? What on earth were you thinking?"

"Now, stop right there. Yeh weren' pinned against any beds." Nervousness registered on Stephen's face for the first time since the crowd had arrived. Deaglan's outburst seemed to be contained, and now all eyes were on him. His height suddenly felt like a disadvantage; what he wanted most was to blend in and disappear.

"Stephen, you walked up behind me, grabbed the bedrail so I was blocked in, breathed down the side of my neck, and pressed your legs against me. What on earth is that if not pinning someone? An invitation to dance? Where was I going to go? It's not like I can move you."

"Nae, now, you were pressed right back up against me, Brennie, don' be tellin' lies."

Deaglan screamed and began thrashing again, but Brena remained impassive. "You really are that desperate, aren't you? That you'd imply forcing yourself on a woman, as if there's an appeal in the notion. Besides, it seems Deaglan would disagree with your assessment, Stephen. Try again." The medical personnel in the room again jumped to action to calm him while Brena waited for Stephen's next verbal dodge.

"If yeh jus' din't want to go to a dinner w'me, yeh coulda jus' said no, yeh crazy bitch."

Nick slammed his bedrail down, putting a ridiculous amount of effort into forcing himself up from the bed. He'd been content to watch Brena upbraid Stephen; her display was equal parts ferocity and personality. However, on hearing Stephen call her a bitch, he wanted to lay a fist through the man's jaw. That is, right after he detoured to the bathroom to finish throwing up; his jolt toward an upright position did him no favors. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how dehydrated and exhausted he was.

"Sorry, the title of Crazy Bitch belongs to me, you flaming fucking marshmallow. Take your sorry pasty ass and walk it out of here _now_ , before I call security and the police, and not in that order." Meredith's voice, flat yet frigid, brought the entire room to a standstill. Stephen looked from Brena to Meredith and back again; the former had embarrassed him and the latter looked the type to make good on any threat she laid out. In a wide circle, Stephen sidled toward the door.

"One more thing, Stephen. My name isn't Brennie. If you're going to be vile and act as though you'd force yourself on me in front of my family, at least have the decency to say my name correctly before you try to defile me."

The murmurs of, 'He called her _what_?' and, 'That's horrid,' that rippled through the crowd propelled Stephen fully out the door, with most of the staff following closely after him to make sure he left. Meredith looked from Deaglan to Brena to Nick and back again, but seeing Deaglan's vital signs descend toward normal gave her confidence that she could leave the room without anything else going wrong. She hugged Brena tightly before heading out the door, looking directly at Nick before she shut the door fully. _'Never thought I'd be happy he was in that room, but...thank God for small favors.'_

As though she was snapping out of a stupor, Brena seemed to suddenly realize Nick was half-dangling from his bed, caught between getting out to help her and getting back in once he saw she helped herself. She guided him back under his quilt, half-slipping on the spilled ice cubes as she moved. Nick tried several times to help hold her up, but it was as though his movements weren't registering correctly with her. Brena kept trying to brush his hands away, but Nick was having none of it.

"Brena, look at me."

She did, cautiously, unsure of what he was doing. "Nick, please, I'm so sorry-"

"Sorry? _Sorry?_ What?"

"I shouldn't have snapped at Stephen. Whether or not you two are friends, you have to work with him, and I've probably just made everything worse for you. He deserved it, but I don't want to cause any more grief than he gives you already."

"Brena, he _touched_ you. Fuck him. He made my life hell at the media event, and then he got back here and tried to fuck with you and Deaglan. The ol' man never acts like that. It was scary. _I'm_ sorry I didn't get up to do more."

Brena smiled weakly and looked at Deaglan, who was looking almost expectantly back at her and Nick. "Had you done any more, we'd need a room for three."

* * *

Thank you to eyeliner, nattiebroskette, willowedmond, captainbart, mom2, em, and everyone who's read and reviewed, or even just read. I'd love to hear what you think! Don't be shy :)


	14. You Had To Ask

Thank you, everyone, for the favorites, follows, and reviews!

Onward!

* * *

Following Stephen's impromptu and permanent departure, Brena immediately tried to make light of the situation, and then spent the rest of the afternoon-into-evening focusing on Nick and Deaglan, until Nick wasn't able to keep his eyes open. The last thing he remembered before letting himself fall asleep was looking at the door, deciding that it was really, solidly closed and Stephen wouldn't come back in.

The media event and ensuing chaos had gutted Nick; he was past tired and well into the type of exhaustion that caused physical pain. Brena ping-ponged between his bed and Deaglan's until she was sure Nick was asleep, and then folded herself so tightly against Deaglan that she worried she'd crush his ribs. She'd never experienced anything quite like what Stephen had done to her, and while she knew he'd done nothing real at all, what he'd implied was terrifying enough. There was no way of knowing how far he'd take it, what his endgame actually was, and watching her uncle fall apart in front of her broke her heart. Deaglan's sleep was as deep as Nick's, and Brena watched them both breathe, grateful for the peace in the room, until she drowsed off herself.

Much later that night, well into third shift, Meredith crept in from the hallway and left the door open behind her, her shadow falling diagonally across the beds and landing on Nick's face. He woke, shifted along with the change of light in the room, then followed Meredith's line of sight over to Deaglan's bed. Brena was clinging to her uncle, her head tucked half under his chin as she curled into his shoulder. She hadn't bothered getting under the quilt, and her face registered equal parts unease and cold. Thanks to the June heat, the air conditioning had been turned on in the building, and Brena – even in a hoodie and generally always warm to a fault – was freezing. As to the rest of it, Nick could only imagine what was going through her mind. _'She said she_ _doesn't know how to handle friendships right now, never mind handle some overbearing, ass-grabbing fuckbag. What the fuck was she supposed to do with Stephen?'_ He shifted again, trying to catch Meredith's attention, and was successful in getting her to come to his bedside.

"Here, take the quilt," Nick didn't dare for more than a whisper while pushing it toward Meredith, "She looks awful."

"Ever the fuckin' charmer, Blondie." Meredith dragged the quilt from Nick's bed and walked it over to Deaglan's, where she laid it over Brena. Brena near-immediately buried her face in it, and Nick was suddenly glad he'd been told to wear cologne for the media event. Meredith walked back to Nick's bed and dropped the siderail, gesturing for him to follow her. He had to struggle to get his feet under him – Meredith was out the door and in the hallway before he could ask for help – and in the process managed to wake Brena.

"You're up? Everything okay?" Brena was only half awake, and was pawing heavily through the quilt, trying to get her hands uncovered.

"Yeah, just...uh...taking a walk. Get some rest, Bren."

Brena sank back against Deaglan, grumbling at him to take some shoes and be careful, but half a smile crossed her face as she tucked back into the quilt. Nick shook his head and shuffled out the door after Meredith, unsure of where she went. The hallway was still – he had no idea what time it was – but it was clear enough that afternoon shift had come and gone and it was solidly into the midnight rotation. He followed the sound of banging plates toward the staff lounge, where he saw Meredith's backside hanging out of the fridge as she cursed a blue streak about being out of forks. She surfaced holding two dinner trays, then dumped their contents onto plates and headed for the microwave after kicking the fridge shut. The gust of air from the door fluttered the room's thin curtains, and Nick was surprised by the humidity he could see hanging in the outdoor air. The heat really was oppressive in Philadelphia, just as Brena had said it would be, and Nick was nowhere near used to it, though it seemed like the air conditioning would plague Brena til summer ended.

"Midnight shifts fucking suck. You get cold leftovers from afternoon shift, and Brena's not kidding when she says the food doesn't reheat for shit." Meredith threw half a glance back over her shoulder at Nick, waiting for him to join her.

Nick still hadn't moved from the doorway, unsure if he was supposed to follow Meredith in the room or not. He knew Brena had access to the staff lounge, but that was Brena. She was different. Meredith threw a stack of paper hand towels on a table near the window, pausing momentarily to snatch Stephen's lily arrangement down from the sill. She sniffed it derisively, then tossed it directly into the industrial-sized trash can next to the counter before giving Nick a confused look.

"Were you gonna come in, or is the ambiance better in the hallway?"

Cautiously, Nick crept into the room, trying to let his eyes adjust from the dimmed overnight hall-lights to the blasting fluorescent lights in the staff lounge. His shirt was wrinkled badly from being slept in; Brena had seen to it that he got out of his clothing from the event and into something a bit more relaxed; Meredith couldn't resist a snort at the combination of Nick's plaid lounge pants and neon pink shirt. She kicked a chair out for him and retrieved a plate from the microwave, sliding it across the table.

"You poison it, or something?" Nick looked skeptical, and rotated the plate as though he was looking for cyanide.

"I have more effective ways of killing you, if it comes to that. Besides, lasagna worked for Brena; let's see if it gets you to talk to me."

Nick paused in the middle of forcing his spoon through the entree, not sure how to take Meredith's exceedingly dry humor. She banged her own plate down on the table and set into it as though she hadn't eaten in a week. Nick put his spoon down and watched her attack her meal, amused by the verve with which she peeled apart her lasagna.

"Okay, so," Meredith gulped out, "You gonna tell me what all that shit was in the room, today?"

"Only if you chew before you swallow. My Heimlich maneuver sucks."

Meredith laughed outright, a brassy, booming sound that rattled around the staff lounge. "Oh, fuck you. I didn't eat all day, and unlike your Little Miss Irish back there, I enjoy my food."

Nick tilted his head to the side, unsure if Meredith had asked him a trick question or was genuinely fishing for knowledge. "Y'know, I don't think it's conscious on her part. She's...busy? Sad? Preoccupied. Something like that. I think she just forgets to eat because she's making sure everyone else is taken care of. Them first, her whenever, you know?"

"And you'd be one of those 'everyones,' right?" Meredith pointed at Nick with her spoon before grabbing for a napkin. "You're mighty territorial about her, Blondie."

Nick began to shove a chunk of the lasagna around his plate, somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed that he'd been called out. "Yeah, and? She's in the room fuckin' tweny-four-seven. I may as well stay on her good side. Fuck knows I've already got enough problems with you."

Meredith balled up her tomato-stained napkin and whipped it into Nick's face, catching him unawares as he stared down into his plate. "Cut the bullshit. Yeah, you and I work together like a cactus and a lapdance, but you are _stuck_ on that girl. Don't even fuckin' lie. There's been a lot of roommates in there, not _one_ of them ever got on the floor to tell Deaglan life would be peachy and the prince would ride back to the castle at sunset, or whatever shit you did in the hallway before you left this morning."

"You saw that?" Nick felt small in his seat, and decidedly uncomfortable.

"Yeah, and did you hear me give you any shit about it? Nope. Now stop acting like I'm taking a ruler to your knuckles." Meredith tilted back in her chair, trying to appraise Nick. "You're good for them both. Brena's more social, Deaglan's more active. He likes you, and trust me, that counts for the world with Brena. The question is," Meredith paused dramatically, slamming her chair legs down, "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Meredith, I have a head injury, remember? You keep acting like I can follow all your bullshit, and I _can't_. Just ask me what you're trying to ask me."

"You two been kissing in a tree, yet?"

Nick dropped his spoon outright, watching it bounce from his plate to the table and then the floor. Meredith laughed again, somehow louder and more trumpeting than the last time, working herself into a watery-eyed hysteria.

"I'll take it that's a no." Meredith shifted from her lasagna to her garlic bread, spewing crumbs as she talked. "Pick your spoon up, Blondie, we're gonna get ants in here. Fuckin' men, always makin' a mess of things." She snorted, amused at herself, before continuing. "Like, you know, _relationships._ "

"Oh, no. Don't you start that shit. You have _no_ idea what I-"

"Prince Blondie, you and _everyone_ else. You think you're the only one with relationship bullshit in your past? Ooh, how _unique_ and _different._ There's _no_ way Brena would be understanding toward someone with _issues_ , God for-fucking-bid." Meredith threw a chunk of crust from her garlic bread at him, clipping him on the side of the face.

"And you're gonna blame me for the fuckin' ants." Nick bent to pick up his spoon and Meredith's oversized crumb, relieved that he didn't feel dizzy when he came back to upright. "No, it's not that I'm a special snowflake. It's that I don't-"

" _I'm_ Prince Blondie and _I_ don't _do_ relationships." Meredith cut in over Nick. "I love 'em and _leave_ 'em. I wine 'em, dine 'em, and _dump_ 'em. I hit it and _quit_ it." Meredith couldn't have been more sing-song or mocking if she tried, and Nick threw the garlic bread right back at her, which she snatched out of midair and lobbed into the trash can. "If you pined over that girl any more, you'd be a goddamned fir-tree-forest. Get over your shit, Nick."

Nick startled, stopping before his retort could surface. "Okay, one, that's the first time I think you've _ever_ used my name. Two, I don't need to get over any hypothetical shit, because I'm not going after Brena. There's _nothing_ there."

"Right, that's why you dumped a bucket of ice water over that douchenugget's head." Nick couldn't help himself from laughing, but Meredith continued, unfazed. "For real, Blondie, admit your shit. If there was nothing there, you woulda hit your call button, or just yelled, and let staff deal with it. Instead, you went after that ginger fuckwit."

Nick sighed and stared into his plate, not caring that he was using the now-dirty spoon to push his lasagna around. "Claudio," he whispered, "This is _your_ fuckin' fault." He looked up at Meredith, debating how much to tell her when he knew it'd likely get back to Brena. "I had a girlfriend in the company. We didn't end so great, but it wasn't super-shitty, either. It was the girlfriend _after_ that, that..."

"That what, broke your head for women? You trying to say there's an _alternative_ reason you're not trying to get my girl in bed?" Meredith snickered.

"Okay, first, I respect Bren more than that. Jesus, I'm an asshole, but I'm not a skeeve. And second..." Nick trailed off, trying to phrase things in his head. "Second, I don't know what she knows."

"What, like, the Kama Sutra?"

"Fuck me, Meredith, _no_ , not that." Nick looked for something else to throw at Meredith but came up empty and opted not to flick actual lasagna at her. "I mean, the last breakup I had was all over the media. I'm not the world's biggest celebrity, but _she_ sure turned into one. I'd be blown away if Brena didn't know _something_."

"Right. The girl who pretty much lives in a hospital room with her dying, elderly uncle, watching black-and-white DVD repeats of _It's A Wonderful Life._ Yep, she sure follows the gossip-pages." Meredith paused. "Actually, she makes two of us. What is there to know?"

Sighing, Nick knew Meredith would pester him until he broke, so he opted to go for honesty and hope it would be enough to get her to back off of playing Cupid. "Amy. I don't remember how we met-"

Meredith snorted, then held her hands up innocently.

"-Anyway, like I was saying. I don't remember how we met. It kinda...it kinda shows how _important_ the relationship was to us, you know?" Nick shook his head. "We spent _so_ much time together at the start, and then my schedule got crazy, and hers blew up with movies and publicity work. She really took off, and we spent less and less time together. When we did get to see each other, we..."

"Tried to make up for lost time by acting like two bunnies in heat?" Meredith finished helpfully.

"Yeah, uh...that. And eventually, that was all it was, and then we broke it off." Nick huffed, and blew a stray strand of hair out of his face. "No, check that. _She_ sent a fuckin' text message to me to end it, and I had to call her three times before she fuckin' picked up, just so she would tell me whether or not she was joking." He stared into his plate, suddenly angrily stabbing his spoon through the lasagna and leaving it standing in the middle. "She _wasn't_ joking."

"Right, and you just stabbed that lasagna like it tried to run a train on your mommy and make her pay for the rubbers. Don't do shit like that or I have to chart it."

Nick snatched the spoon out like he could make Meredith un-see it. "Anyway, so she wasn't joking. We were done, I was upset, and she had a media tour coming up to promote a movie, or some shit. What better way to make it interesting than to talk about dumping your pretty-boy-boyfriend?"

"Okay, so you had a public breakup. Brena knows you're a public guy. I'm failing to see the problem here."

"Would you let me finish?" Nick started tracing lines through the tomato sauce on his plate, the edge of the spoon scraping loudly as he went. "It's not just that it was public, it was what she _said._ That she dumped me because..."

"Because of your schedule?" Meredith cut her antics; she could tell Nick was struggling for words.

"Because she thought I was, 'Too athletic in bed.'"Nick shot the words out, and Meredith had to struggle to keep a straight face, not knowing if she should believe what Nick said.

"Okay, wait," Meredith tried to keep her voice neutral, "She dumped you because you, like most men, enjoy sex?"

" _Athletic_ sex, apparently. I didn't even know what to do with that, once she said it. The perks of being a guy – if I call her out for being a tacky bitch, then I come across like I'm angry. Or insecure. But-"

"No, fuck _that_ noise. _That's_ bullshit." Meredith had the same tone she used when she was talking to Stephen earlier in the day. "Just because we have tits doesn't mean we can be bitches."

"Yeah, but _you_ can say that. You _have_ tits." Meredith's eyebrows shot up, angrily, and Nick held up his hands. "No! No. You know what I mean. Another chick can say Amy never should have made the comment, but as soon as I make that point, I'm a douche and a sexist pig and I should just be grateful that my ex is talking about me...to me...at all. No matter what she's saying. She thought that shit was funny."

"She makes you sound like...well...like Stephen."

"Trust me, I know. After that, all I got when I went out was, 'You gonna do me like that? You gonna _ragdoll_ me?' Fuck, I didn't even know what ragdolling someone was. It was easier just to look for a hookup and give the chick what she was asking me for. Er, once I figured it out, I mean." Nick threw the spoon down. "Not to sound like an asshole, but-"

"Which means you're about to sound like an asshole."

"-But, I never got so... _in_ to it with Amy that I left her bow-legged, you know?"

"Yeah. Asshole."

Nick threw his hands in the air and then shoved himself back from the table, hard enough to almost send himself backwards. "Why do you think I said 'fuck it' to relationships and just went for the steady stream of pussy that was lining up in front of me?"

"Oh, well, _pardon_ me. Your poor bedpost must have so many notches taken out of it that it thinks it's a toothpick factory." Meredith rolled her eyes. "You sound _so_ happy about things, too. It must be real satisfying, being a dick on two legs."

"Even if it's not," Nick cut in, "It doesn't matter. When I'm working, I'm traveling over _three_ _hundred_ days a year. Plus, add in my lovely ex, and the fallout that happens every time she trots out the bedtime stories, and what relationship do you think I'm gonna have?"

Meredith was silent, but it wasn't accusatory. She was thinking as much as Nick was, though not quite along the same track. It was several minutes before she spoke again, leaving Nick with his thoughts and his tomato sauce in the meantime. "One where you don't just _want_ the girl, you _get_ the girl? C'mon now, you're not thinking."

Nick got up and headed for the door, but Meredith's voice jumped in front of him. "Sit down and just _listen_."

Nick stopped, but didn't sit, and refused to face Meredith. She stood up, dropped her plate in the lounge's sink, and nudged past Nick at the doorway. He looked over her head, out into the hallway, jaw ticking from the stress he suddenly felt, knowing she was staring up at him but refusing to look down at her. "Meredith, I don't -"

"Nah, yeah, you _do._ You _know_ you do, you twat. You're just so caught up in what-ifs and this-mights that you're talking yourself out of shit that hasn't happened yet."

"You're the one who told me she doesn't need my shit, Meredith. Or don't you remember?" Nick had slipped from tense to angry, and it showed in his tone.

"Yeah, I remember. And that was when you wouldn't have got up out of the bed to piss on me if I was on fire. Today? Today, you were ready to kill Stephen. Twice. You were on the floor in front of Deaglan to try to make him feel better, and that was as much for him as it was for you and Bren. You gave up that quilt – and you ball up in that thing like a fuckin' _blankie_ , Nick – but you gave it up for her. You're not the same person who rolled in here, and you're not giving her shit anymore. I'll admit it. You're good for her. You might even be good _with_ her."

A sly smile crept across his face, replacing the irritated expression. "And if I told you the only reason she's got that quilt right now is so it smells like her perfume again?"

"Then I'd tell you that you've got it bad, and you're a sneaky motherfucker." Meredith punched his shoulder, harder than he expected, and he shook his head at her. "C'mon. Get your ass back to the room. It's either late or early, depending on how you look at it. She's gonna be up in a bit."

"How d'you know?"

"Because I told her I took a midnight shift, and dollars to donuts she's gonna either go out to get me a coffee, or else brew a pot."

Nick shook his head and stepped around Meredith, heading toward his room. He stopped, halfway down the hall, and then turned back to her. "Why'd you take the extra shift?"

Meredith closed the distance between them before answering, looking him squarely in the eyes as she spoke. "Because I was just as worried about her as you were." She grabbed Nick by the arm and started walking him back toward his room. "She was rattled as fuck after that mess with that overgrown leprechaun. Brena's no pure and untouched flower, but she's – as far as I know – never had a man do anything _half_ as threatening toward her. I mean, can you picture her even _arguing_ with a boyfriend? Never mind a man who's insinuating that he's gonna, like, lick her in front of her uncle? Her father, really." Meredith lowered her voice once they were outside his door. "I think she knew what to do, intellectually. Text-book-style, you know, yell at the guy, no means no, all that shit. But in the moment? She was _lost_. And you," Meredith shoved Nick through the door, "Well, there you were."


	15. Cupric Chlorate

You pushed me to publish, and for that, thank you.

Onward!

* * *

Nick had no further outside media dates, thanks to Dr. Morgan and, surprisingly, Claudio. Once Nick told his friend what Stephen had done, Claudio took it upon himself to go to Talent Relations. While nothing could be proved – Stephen was of course not going to admit he'd been grinding on a resident's family member – the WWE didn't feel the need to make the same mistake twice. Claudio was half-ready to throw Stephen out of a moving tour bus; he'd talked to Brena several times since the incident, and she wouldn't discuss it directly – Claudio took that as a sign she was, indeed, more shaken up than she was ready to let on, and he fervently hoped Nick was being supportive, or at least, present.

* * *

June gave way to July, and as it did Brena seemed to be in almost manic spirits. Even Nick, foggy as he was, could see why; she'd been glued to the windows every night since late in June, trying to see the fireworks that people launched from their apartment and brownstone rooftops, and taking Deaglan outside to the courtyard at night to watch them when it wasn't too muggy, just so he'd have a better view. _'She's gonna be gone on the Fourth, I bet. All day, even. Fucking holidays.'_ Nick had enjoyed watching her light up like a kid in a candy store as each blast went off, but was jealous of her time and how she spent it – outside. He still wasn't allowed to stick his nose out the doors of Magee – apparently, the WWE was not yet convinced he wouldn't cut and run.

The lack of employer-sanctioned away time and assumption Brena would be preoccupied with Deaglan on the holiday were all the more reason for his jaw to drop after she came back from the PT Room on the Fourth. He'd long-since given up on asking her what she did there; she only went when there were no other patient appointments or it was closed for the night. All he knew was, she left like she was dressed to work out, and came back sweaty.

* * *

On that particular night, she'd left for the PT room after dinner, Deaglan snoring lightly and Nick wrapped up in some sort of Twitter obligation that the WWE wanted him to participate in, in lieu of the media tour. He didn't think twice when a maintenance worker came into the room, but it did give him pause when the man went into Deaglan's bathroom and began banging things around. He emerged minutes later with all of Deaglan's shower supplies wrapped in a towel, searching unsuccessfully for a place to put them out in the main room. Shrugging, the maintenance worker put the towel and supplies down in the chair next to Deaglan's bed, then dragged a tool cart in from the hallway, blocking most of the doorway to the room – it looked as though he assumed all of the occupants were present and accounted for, and left the cart there for several minutes. Brena had to nudge past it when she came back from the PT room, sweaty as ever, and now confused by the late presence of the maintenance worker.

"Mark? Oh my goodness, what are you doing here? It's after dinner! What happened?"

"Oh, uh, Brena! I thought you went home for at bit. Uh, about this," Mark gestured toward the now-deconstructed shower stall, "Nothing happened, it's just been on the to-do list for a while. I knew we had to replace the fixtures, but nobody really had time to get to it. Looked like things finally stopped falling apart, and I didn't want Deaglan to have to wait any longer than he did already. Especially since there's low need, and all, right now. Holiday numbers."

"It was no bother the way it was, but it's sweet of you to worry about it. I'm sorry you got stuck here late, especially since it's a holiday, and the traffic is going to be atrocious. Hopefully it won't take too long to handle – I'm sure you want to get down to the riverbank." Brena waved off his concern about the deconstructed shower, reaching past him to grab a towel from the counter and scrub it through her hair. She tried to sniff at herself discreetly, and lifted a duffel bag she'd tucked under Deaglan's bed. She smiled and shook her head at the pile of shower supplies in the chair – it left her no place to put her bag, and likely soaked the chair besides. Brena sat on the floor while she pawed through her bag, coming up with a change of clothing, Nick then watched her nudge through her own shower soaps – clearly, she'd planned on doing whatever she usually did in the PT room, and came prepared. Looking back at the bathroom and draping her now-used towel across her arm, Nick could tell the lack of a functional shower was a wrench in her works.

"Don't worry, Uncle D. I'll figure out this shower thing before you wake up, and then we'll go watch the show, okay?" Brena leaned down to kiss her sleeping uncle's cheek, and Nick had to force half a smile at the duo – Brena did say something about _going_ , after all, and he didn't enjoy the idea of being alone in the room for the evening. "Now...to figure out this shower thing, I suppose." Brena was more mumbling to herself than anything else, trying to decide if trotting down to the staff locker area would be a good idea, and stared down at her bottle of shower gel as though the answer to her problem would be written on the label. So many of Magee's patients came in suffering of nausea that the hospital had long-ago decided staff showers were in order. It was cheaper to double up on break time and let their employees clean themselves up at the hospital after assisting particularly queasy patients than it was to send them home and hope traffic would allow them back before the end of their shifts.

"Hey, uh, Brena? You can use my shower." Nick tried to sound casual; he knew the offer was just on the line of being overly-familiar.

Brena smiled, relieved. "You're a lifesaver. I didn't want to drive all the way back home just to clean up, then try to come back here and go _back_ to the brownstone again, with Deaglan. He normally doesn't nap now, but I think he knows what's on, tonight. The traffic is going to be _crazy_ right now; half the city is probably trying to get to the river."

"The river?" Nick sounded both confused and interested; his Twitter project completely forgotten. "What's going on?"

"One of the best things the city puts on all year! Fireworks!" Brena was practically bouncing up and down, "And even better, you can _see_ them from home!" Child-like in her delight, she trotted over to Nick's window. "Well, not from the parlor, you know, or the bedrooms, but you can see them from the building if you crowd a bit in the attic. It's amazing. Honest. I did it all the time, as a kid. Deaglan hasn't missed a show yet, either." She reorganized her soaps in her arms and headed back toward Nick's bathroom. "I'll be five minutes, tops."

"Hold up a tick." Nick, suddenly serious, caused Brena to stop in the doorway to the bathroom. "You can shower there... _if_ you tell me what you're up to in the PT room." His tone went from serious to devilish, and Brena catted back at him.

"Well, I guess you'd better resign yourself to having an aromatic roommate." Brena tossed her sweaty towel onto the foot of Nick's bed, and he made an exaggerated disgusted face before kicking it to the ground.

"Yeah, yeah. It was worth a shot. Go de-stink yourself, Heyabrena." He laughed as she sniffed at herself again and shuddered.

It was closer to ten minutes when Brena re-emerged, back in her standard uniform of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, though Nick didn't know how she could stand it in the middle of the summer. He tapped at an imaginary watch and shook his head at her, tsk-tsking the length of her shower. "You were in there long enough that the maintenance guy finished up. You _could_ have just been patient, you know. Waited for your _own_ shower to get fixed."

"Oh, hush." Brena feigned hurt feelings, putting a hand over her heart. "You said I was aromatic; I was trying to do you a favor by making sure I was clean. See?" She spun in a fouette, the movement surprising Nick. "And, that's the _only_ clue you get about the PT room." She winked, then began to pack away her soaps. Deaglan stirred in bed, and Brena gave him a few minutes to wake fully before bundling him into his wheelchair and moving him to the door.

"You said I can see the fireworks from here?" Nick sounded hopeful; Brena hated to ruin it for him.

"Honestly, I'm not sure about _right_ here. I know this room doesn't face the river, so you'd have better luck...hm. In the day room, actually, that's the right direction. Hopefully you can see them over the other buildings; everything's a little tall on this block." Nick was visibly disappointed in her response, and Brena's face tightened at his reaction.

"I'm stuck in here, so I'll probably catch them on TV. Have fun with Deaglan." He turned his attention back to his laptop, but couldn't help the slouch that dominated his posture. _'Fuckin' Stamford. Shitty thing is, they probably_ would _say I tried to quit treatment or whatever, if I went to the river, and then really fire me. Even if all I said was that I wanted to go for a walk. It's dumb anyway, it's not like I know how to get to the river. Or get back here. Bren said traffic is bad; I probably can't even get a cab right now. Dumb, dumb. Just go to bed early, or something.'_ He breathed in deeply, glad that Brena's ginger soap lingered long after her shower.

* * *

Brena had a plan the second she walked out of Deaglan's room, and she only had to make it as far as the nurses' station before finding Mark and getting started. She'd talked to the man a hundred times before; he'd repaired everything from Deaglan's squeaking bed to a leaking pipe on the staff sink in the lounge, and they knew each other quite well. This time, though, she knew she was pushing it in what she was about to request. _'Not only does this make_ no _sense, this...makes no sense. He said he'd watch the silly things on TV. Then again, this'll be easier than driving across town and trying to duck around people. He'd be seen, and he'd tell me no, anyway. It's not as good as Christmas, but Nick can afford to have one nice holiday. One thing that isn't misery while he's here.'_ Brena smiled at Mark as he slipped two keys off his key ring and passed them to her, warning her to be careful, take towels to lean on because the concrete would be hot, and not throw him under the bus if something went wrong. She checked the wall clock above the nurses' station and considered her options; she had a few hours to kill before the fireworks started.

"C'mon, Uncle D. Let's go check out the digs and see if towels will really cut it or not. You never know, pillows might be a better choice. Either way, we need to get to the main laundry room on the double, before they close for the night."

Deaglan looked confused when they boarded the freight elevator; he grunted and grabbed at Brena's hands when she used one of the two keys she'd been given to light up the panel of buttons and the elevator pinged past several floors on its way up.

"Relax, Uncle D. You're going to like this, and I promise, you won't miss the show." She spun his wheelchair around in order to back him out of the elevator, using the second key to open the locked rooftop exit, squinting as she caught a faceful of setting sunlight. Moving to the east side of the building, where darkness was slowly starting to build, being careful to stay on the walking path that lined the wall-edge of the roof, Brena marveled at the view she had of the city. Entirely unobstructed, and directly on-line to the river, she could see the boats that would be launching the fireworks, as well as the crowds and chaos on the riverbank. While she knew Deaglan would have enjoyed the show from the river's edge, she was feeling strangely selfish. Something nagged at Brena to keep Deaglan close and Nick closer – it wasn't residual nerves from her encounter with Stephen; that was long past. It was something nameless and loose, warm in her mind, a combination of sparkling edges and frayed threads, familiar and strange and _necessary_. Whatever it was.

"Okay, Uncle D. I think we scouted a good spot. You're going to get your best view yet, this year. Let's go back downstairs and see if we can make this...sound not as crazy as I think it is." She hustled Deaglan back onto the elevator, hoping Nick had stayed in the room, or at least, hadn't wandered far. If she had to announce her plan in front of a crowd, she figured she may as well not do it at all.

* * *

Nick walked down toward the day room, but was reluctant to do more than look in from the hallway. For one, he knew he didn't have a prayer of a chance of seeing any actual fireworks from the windows; the buildings on the other side of the street went far enough up that they'd block his view of the show. Beyond that, the room was crowded with residents and patients, all planning on watching the fireworks on TV as a group. Nick rolled his eyes and kept walking, opting not to go in at all. He threw some quarters into the vending machine at the end of the hall, got a ridiculously caffeinated drink, and turned to go back to his room – nearly plowing into Deaglan and Brena, who had come up behind him.

"The fuck? I thought you went home?"

Brena smiled. "We _do_ pretty much live here now, you know."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what's going on?"

"Have you ever thought about how tall this building is?"

For a second, Nick looked terrified. _'You could say that, Bren. What are you trying to do, though? That's a better question.'_ "Er...sorta, Bren. Why?"

"Come with me? I've got a surprise for you, but it's going to cost you a Diet Coke."

"You're gonna break my bank account if you keep this up, asking for _expensive_ shit." Nick's laugh was gentle, and Brena poked at his side, fully in on the joke.

* * *

"Don't look, please, Nick? I'd be so disappointed if you saw this before I knew...well, before I knew it was ready. And _'_ ready' is going to be a complete guess on my part. Bear with me?"

Brena led him back past the day room and asked him to close his eyes and hold on to the back of Deaglan's wheelchair when they reached the intersection at the end of the hallway. Slowly, carefully, she walked him and Deaglan down a series of hallways back to the service elevator, occasionally waving her hands dangerously close to his face, figuring he'd flinch if he was trying to sneak peeks as they went. Brena leaned him back against the wall of the elevator boxcar, warning him before she pushed any buttons – she didn't want to have him throw up on the way to the roof, and knew the lurch of the giant freight elevator could be enough to tangle his sense of balance into an unsolvable knot. A gust of hot, muggy outdoor air flew into everyone's faces when the freight doors swung open, making Deaglan howl with glee and clap his hands, and Brena jumped up to press her hand over Nick's eyes, nearly-positive he'd try to look to see what Deaglan was so excited about. _'Then again, if he doesn't know he's been up an elevator and now gone outside, we have bigger problems than just him looking around.'_

"You can relax, Bren. I promised you I wouldn't look." Nick regretted the words almost as soon as they were out of his mouth; in order for her to effectively cover his eyes, she had to practically hang off of him. Brena was tall, but not so tall that she didn't have to reach a bit to properly blind him, and she'd taken off her hoodie at some point during their walk or their lurching upward ride. Nick assumed what they'd been in was an elevator, because his mind couldn't generate any other logical conclusions, but he also knew his mind was still far from logical. Now that she was dangling off his side in an effort to keep him from looking at whatever he wasn't yet supposed to know was there – like the outdoors – her skin was fragrant and almost sticky against him, thanks to the combination of the soap from her shower and the July weather. In telling her he wouldn't look, she now had an excuse to let go.

"I really hope you don't – at least, not yet. Here, step once to the left, and then put your hands out."

"And?"

"And then we wait. I brought you up here early, so you're going to have to stand me and the heat for a few minutes."

Brena had walked him up to the edge of the building, and when Nick reached forward he did so blindly, waiting for her to give him an idea what was next or where he was. She pressed his hands down onto the towel she'd earlier used to cover the ledge; the concrete was hot, dusty and full of pigeon feathers, and it suddenly concerned her that he'd get a terrible sense of vertigo if he looked down instead of out when he opened his eyes. _'I have to time this...well, pretty much perfectly. Let's hope they start the show the same way this year as last year. I should be able to hear when things are about to go off, and then I can tell him to look.'_ She cracked open her Coke and sipped at it, alternately watching his eyes and the horizon.

Deaglan wheezed along with the crowd when they cheered; he, Brena, and Nick were far enough from the riverbank that the crowd's response was distant after the start of the show was announced, and the first notes of the national anthem barely carried on the wind. Nick's back was hot from standing and waiting in the last rays of the setting sun – Brena had brought them up in dusk, though Nick could tell from the slight drop in temperature that it was now dark outside – and he almost reflexively hummed along with the anthem. _'Perils of being a sports guy, I guess, but where the fuck are we?'_

A series of high-pitched whistles shrilled through the air, and Nick tensed his fingers into the towel, Deaglan's clapping becoming more insistent as the music faded. Next to him, he could feel more than hear Brena counting to three, and when she breathed out, "Look," he opened his eyes in time to see a series of blue and gold chrysanthemum and kamuro fireworks explode over the river in the distance, crackling and shimmering in the darkness. Brena had stepped quickly behind Nick and put one hand up on his shoulder, more than happy to miss the opening salvo if it meant keeping him upright, in case he _did_ actually look down and lose his sense of distance and gravity.

"Holy _shit..._ you really..."

"Happy Fourth, Nick." She reached out from behind him and raised her Coke, not missing his wide eyes or wider smile.

* * *

The display went on for more than an hour, both Brena and Nick standing quietly but happily next to each other, leaning into the wall. There was just enough of a breeze moving through to make the heat tolerable, and Brena was smart enough to give up on her hoodie before they came outside, opting instead to fold it and have Deaglan use it as a pillow behind his neck. She had no illusions about his ability to stay awake long enough to watch the whole show, but that was besides the point. It was more that Deaglan had to be there to see it – because that was how the world should work – not so much that he had to last through all of it.

"What made you think of this?" Nick was quiet when he asked, figuring the show was close to winding down and knowing he wouldn't likely have another chance to ask. He chanced a thought of looking down; his mind snapped back to his thoughts from weeks ago about walking off the roof, and he choked back a shiver.

"Honestly? Christmas cookies." Brena shrugged. "You always talk about holidays – well, not holidays, but _that_ holiday – and it seemed so..." Suddenly examining her fingernails, Brena breathed deeply and considered her next words carefully, not wanting to push herself further into his life than was appropriate. "I wanted you to have...a nice Fourth. You're stuck here, it may as well be a little enjoyable. My company isn't – I mean – you see me all day – but it's not like-"

"Thanks, Bren." Nick pulled her over, into his side. "Really. This was pretty much perfect."

"Oh?" Brena tilted her head back and looked up at Nick, who was still looking out toward the river.

 _'Nope, shut your mouth, Nemeth. She was just trying to be nice. You probably just fuckin' creeped her out – or made her feel sorry for you with all the whining about Christmas.'_ "Yeah, actually. Just perfect." He squeezed his arm around her a bit, then made the move casual by jostling her a bit in his grip, a teasing shoulder-shake that lightened the mood. "Even the bird-dirt. It's part of the Philly charm."

"For heaven's sake, Nick. I'll bring a broom, next time." Brena elbowed him, gently, but made no effort to move away.

The show closed with enough firepower to cause the air around them to vibrate slightly, even with their distance from the river, and Brena pulled slightly closer into Nick's side as the explosions reverberated around them, despite how sweaty she felt. He hadn't dropped his arm, so she felt relatively safe in her motion – it couldn't bother him, she rationalized, he'd started it.

"I never looked down," Nick whispered out into the darkness, half-hoping the booming noise would drown him out, "I'm not _going_ to look down."

Brena turned just enough to look up at him in profile, and brought her hand up to cover his as it rested on her shoulder. "The edge of the building?" Her fingers laced through his, and he gripped back at her so hard that he took up the strap on her tanktop as he moved. "We can go in if you want, Nick."

"Nah, no, I like it up here. I just..." He turned his head just enough to look down at her; the yellowish security lighting made her hair almost take a greenish tinge over its usual bluish-black color. _'I bet if we turned the lights off up here, you would match the sky.'_ Brena's eyes were patient, and she watched him watch her, unblinking. "Sometimes I talk too fuckin' much, you know?"

"You were thinking about going over the side of the building." Brena's voice held no malice or surprise; she spoke with about as much animation as someone who'd asked for the business section from the daily paper.

"Bren, seriously, I don't want to sound like I'm-"

"So have I." She turned to look back out over the city, silent for a few minutes. "You'll come up with a reason to stay." Cautiously, she tipped her head back to its original position against his side, sighing quietly.

* * *

Welcome, AWrestlingGod! Welcome Cougar3371! And, welcome LionOfDarkness! Thank you all for your lovely reviews, as well. Any comments, good or bad, I'd love to hear from my readers.


	16. A Month With No Days

August was interminably long. A pressure-cooker of heat and street-stench, Nick nearly became glad he was limited to the building and could avoid the weather. Brena, on the other hand, reveled in it. The smell of the hot asphalt was like nectar to her, and she walked Deaglan round and round the blocks of Philadelphia for hours. Occasionally, they'd disappear back to their old haunts in Port Richmond, coming back with boxes of pastries, bags of candy, giant bouquets of flowers that Nick swore could have come as easily from a roadside as they could from a florist, and with Brena's phone laden with pictures of where they'd been. Brena would get Deaglan settled in his bed before bounding over to Nick's side, eager to share her snapshots of the day. If she knew she'd be particularly busy with Deaglan on their return, she'd simply toss her phone over to Nick, saying he could start scrolling and to ask questions as he went.

It felt less like Nick was trapped, in those moments – as much as Brena's life was limited to the select few places she could take Deaglan to when they were outside, her stories and pictures broadened the world for Nick. Slowly, he learned her neighborhood, and even became able to pick out some of her neighbors when they popped up repeatedly in photographs. He never asked her if she talked about him; rather, he knew she'd protect his privacy to a fault. Sometimes, Nick wondered if she didn't take Deaglan out during the day just so he'd have photographs to look at when she came back, but then he'd roll his eyes inwardly at his train of thought. _'The fuck, Nemeth? She's not going out for your amusement. Be glad you get to see pictures at all.'_

About mid-month, Brena spent a long day away with Deaglan, not returning until all three meals had passed and it was nearly bedtime. She felt compelled to rush him in to bed; she'd exhausted him with their day away from the facility, and so she lobbed her phone into Nick's lap as she wheeled Deaglan into the bathroom. He chuckled lowly, and then started a slow scroll through her gallery. One snapshot in particular made Nick smile; in it, Deaglan was beaming and even Brena, facing him, had thrown her head back in a broad laugh. They were inside what looked to be a pub, and while it wasn't anywhere near busy or crowded, the empty room glowed just by their being in it. He waggled her phone at her, the picture tilting from vertical to lateral and back again as he did so.

"What's this place?"

"Oh, that?" Brena paused while lifting Deaglan from his chair into his bed, "That's Deaglan's favorite pub. When I was little, he'd play darts there and run the taps dry on Guinness. The bartender took that for us – he still remembers my uncle. We left early because it's rugby night and the place gets a little rowdy, but it was worth it. We went from there to the park, and he-"

"Bren, why don't you go out?" Nick skimmed his thumb across the screen, flipping between two pictures. Immediately following the snapshot in the bar was a picture of what he assumed was their brownstone; a worn bakery sign was hung over a large, plate-glass window full of cakes and pastries. The curtains were drawn over the windows of the living area above the bakery, and Nick wondered if he could get away with asking her why she didn't go home.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Nick, not you too. Didn't Stephen ask me the same thing?" Her face caught between exasperation and a bemused expression he couldn't quite read; Nick wasn't sure how badly he'd misstepped, or if he had at all.

"I'm not asking you to leave Deaglan alone, if that's what you mean. I'm not even…fuck, I don't know what I'm doing. You deserve...I mean, it's like..." Nick struggled for words, and Brena looked at him curiously, Deaglan now safely tucked into his bed. She crept over to his bedside and wrapped her hands around the one of his that was still waving her phone around. "You look _happy_ in that picture, Bren."

"Well, yes. We had a good day out, and I have fond memories of that pub." Brena snorted out a laugh. "How many other places can you think of that'd let a little girl sit under a billiards table to do her homework while her uncle sharked half the lushes? I'm not sure what else you mean I deserve, though." Warm and soft, Brena's fingers threaded through Nick's and pulled her phone from his grasp.

"I mean, you're always here. You said you miss your friends, and you just gave Deaglan a really good day. What about you? Don't you need to, like...I dunno...go do something?"

"Take a holiday, you mean?" Brena laughed as she shook her head. "You're sweet to think of it, but no, I don't need to...take a day off, so to speak."

"Okay, fine." Nick crunched his eyebrows together, thoughts coming and going from his mind rapidly. "But don't you ever _want_ to?"

Brena looked completely confused. "I guess it's never crossed my mind, Nick. I wouldn't want to go to a bar just to sit alone, if that's what you mean. I don't shop much, you know, malls and things. Maybe a movie would be nice, but – oh, I don't know." She stood from Nick's bed. "You know I need to be – oh, let me stop. You mean well, and it's sweet of you to think of it, Nick, but it's really not feasible. I sneak off home when I can, and that's just fine with me."

That, of course, was how Brena found herself trying to tug down the hem of a hilariously short skirt a week later, all while Meredith applied, removed, and reapplied eyeliner and lipstick, determined to find a shade that matched just-so.

* * *

"Why doesn't she ever go out?"

Meredith chuckled before dropping Nick's chart back into the slot at the foot of his bed. "Who, Little Miss Irish? Let me ask you something, Blondie. Why was the Taj Mahal built?"

"Uh...wasn't that for love?" Nick tried to keep up with Meredith's train of thought, but was beginning to understand she made herself intentionally difficult to follow.

"The door prize goes to the dumbass!" She slapped at his quilt-covered foot. "Exactly. She loves Deaglan. Her heart is here, so is the rest of her."

"It's not...good. I mean, it's not bad, I'm not saying she shouldn't, like, be involved, but it's just that-"

"That she's here so much you wonder if she's going to pick up dust? Yeah, I know." Suddenly somber, Meredith looked as though she was considering options. "I've tried telling her to get out, but she says there's no point to it. It's not something she's got the energy for."

"Okay, but you know you owe me one, right?" Nick cocked an eyebrow at her; for her part, she looked lost.

"Uh, Nick? You hit your head again that we don't know about?"

Nick snorted. "Nope. You told me I had to get her to go to dinner. Now it's your turn. Drinks."

"Oh, fuck you, Blondie." Meredith was peevish and unwilling to concede the point to Nick. "Going to dinner was one thing; that was in the building and she brought Deaglan to chaperone you two and your lasagna. But drinks? You're asking me to work a fuckin' miracle."

"Who else for a booze-related miracle than Saint Meredith The Drunk, right?" Nick nudged her hand with his foot, succeeding in moving it onto the bed and off his ankle. "You told me to get it done, now _you_ get it done. She needs to get out of here for a couple hours. It's not healthy for her to be in here all the time. It's not normal."

"Yeah, and you're the absolute gold fuckin' standard for healthy and normal." Meredith crossed her arms. " _If_ I was willing to agree you had a point, what do you want me to do?"

"Same thing I did, Saint Meredith. Get her to have some fun." Nick was smug in his answer, and Meredith could only huff in response.

* * *

It wasn't so much that Meredith disagreed with Nick's notion that Brena needed to get out more; rather, it was that the task was like climbing Everest. It wasn't something you woke up one morning and decided to do, with no forethought or planning. It was something you carefully considered, trained for, considered all the options and outcomes, and ultimately still weren't sure was possible. Meredith already knew Brena would say no, the question was whether her resistance was something that could be overcome. She was on edge about the idea for numerous reasons besides the argument she knew would be coming, not the least of which was the further muddying of the waters between friendship and professionalism. Meredith was the lead RN on Deaglan's case study; upon his death she'd be the lead RN on his autopsy. It was something she and Brena both chose to ignore; they'd managed a friendship despite Deaglan's mortality looming over the both of them.

She had to admit, Nick was right. Brena spent every waking moment, and nearly all of her sleeping ones, at Deaglan's bedside. _'Nothing ventured, nothing drank. Let's aim for Thursday. I have a day off, she has nothing but time, and Deaglan doesn't have anything scheduled.'_

* * *

"Meredith, I love you, but have _you_ been hit in the head?" Brena dropped Deaglan's pillow on the floor, picked it up, bobbled it, and dropped it again out of sheer shock. "I already know Nick's put you up to this, but I can't believe you're actually going along with it." Dusting off the pillow case, Brena wrinkled her nose and went to a drawer to get a new one, grateful Nick wasn't around to see her being awkward. "If I bring you more hazelnut cake, will you let it drop?"

"Look, when the guy's right, the guy's right. What can I say?" Meredith shrugged. "You're here all day, every day. You probably know my schedule better than I do. Fuck, you probably know Dr. Morgan's schedule better than I do, and he's signing my checks. If he was here right now, he would even tell you to go out."

"Well, he's _not_ here right now. Or tomorrow, either, so don't thi-"

"Game, set, match. Why the _fuck_ do you know that?" Meredith snatched the fresh pillow case from Brena's hands and quickly rolled it into a rat-tail, snapping her friend in the thigh. "Seriously. You, me, that pub you always go to with Deaglan, Thursday night. I already looked, your uncle isn't on the books for anything, and if I have to Google any more cail or rugby schedules, I'll cry. The bar will be quiet. There are _no_ matches that night. Not _one."_

Brena looked skeptical, and opened her mouth to speak, but Meredith cut her off. "I'm not above a little blackmail." Fixing a wounded and dramatic look on her face, Meredith clasped a hand over her heart and hung dramatically off the side of Deaglan's bed. "If you _don't_ go with me, it's like we were _never_ friends and you just want me to go drink _alone."_

Sighing, Brena shook her head and pulled the pillowcase back from Meredith. "You win, Mer. I suppose there's no harm in being an audience to your acting like a horrible Irish stereotype. Spilled Guinness and all."

"Oh, shut your mick mouth." Meredith pulled Brena to the middle of the room and began dragging her around in an exaggerated waltz. "By the end of the night, you'll be sopped in Jameson and Bushmills, screaming along to Flogging Molly and the Pogues with the rest of us." She whirled Brena in large, dipping circles, both of them losing their fight against laughter. "And if you're not, I'll start buying you doubles and demanding that God-awful Macklemore song gets put in the jukebox."

"Dubliners and Dropkick Murphys, or I'm out." Brena's face was suddenly serious, and Meredith brought their staggering dance to such a rapid halt that she almost tipped herself over. "I'll see if I can get one of my friends to stay with Deaglan for a bit."

"There's my girl. Not _quite_ out of your fuckin' mind, but I'll get you there on Thursday. You've got 48 hours; go raid one of your closets and find a nice outfit."

"I'm wearing this, Meredith. If you want me in a bar, you're going to have to compromise just a bit."

Meredith's med pager went off, breaking the moment. She grumbled as she checked it, but headed for the door. "Okay, okay, you win. We're going to compromise." She tossed a backward glance over her shoulder. " _You_ let _me_ take care of getting someone to watch Deaglan, okay?" Stepping out into the hallway, Meredith continued, knowing Brena couldn't hear her. "That's the compromise. I've got it."

* * *

Meredith could hardly conceal her glee when she told Nick that Brena agreed to a girls' night out. The next snag was that Brena only agreed to go if someone could be found to watch Deaglan, and Nick readily stepped up to the task. Meredith warned him more than a few times not to tease about their bar night, or over-emphasize things, because it wouldn't take much to push Brena away from the idea of being social. He assured Meredith he'd leave the whole issue alone, but secretly was glad to have Deaglan to himself for a night. It wasn't that he expected scintillating conversation; instead, it was more that Brena's uncle was always a willing and receptive audience to Nick's monologues.

"You still aren't gonna give me any clues about your girl, are you, ol' man?" Nick smiled warmly at Deaglan, the corners of his eyes crinkling upward. "That's okay. Maybe I can just talk her out of my system. Out of my head." The grunt that Deaglan aimed at Nick was slicing, and Nick shook his head – sometimes, he wondered exactly how much the old man understood. _'Because, you know, you kinda always pick up on my bullshit.'_

In the spirit of things – and thinking that if she went along with Meredith's plan, it might not end up a complete spat – Brena did slip away to the brownstone late Wednesday night after she was positive Nick and Deaglan were asleep, coming back with an armload of clothing and muttering to herself as she dropped it on the overbed table near Deaglan. She unshouldered a small duffel bag, eased to the floor along with it, and took out a few pairs of shoes, lining them up under the bed before shaking out the clothing she'd brought and stacking it neatly on the bedside table.

"Hey, uh, Brena?"

"Dear Lord, Nick, you scared me!" Brena had startled; she really did think he'd be asleep. It was after midnight and neither Nick nor Deaglan was usually awake at that hour. "Did you need something?"

 _'Tell me you're happy?'_ "Er...nah. Never mind. I'll see you in the morning." Slowly, Nick turned onto his side, hoping Brena didn't see his smile.

"Meredith, I danced for years! Think stage-makeup! I can put on my own lipstick! Really, you're worried abou-Ow!"

Flinching, Brena tried to back away from Meredith's vice-like grip as she squashed Brena's lips into a duck-pout in Deaglan's bathroom, slathering on a deep red lipstick. "Here we go! This is the one!"

"Mer, you said that three shades ago." Brena blotted her lips against a hospital tissue, and frowned. "This is silly, honestly. It's just a bar. I'm going with _you_ , not out on the pull."

"Aye, but there's a darts tourney!" Meredith practically jumped up and down, and Brena strongly suspected she'd had a few nips between when she'd left work and when she'd come back to help Brena get dressed and catch a cab. " _You_ don't have to pull, but I'm gonna yank til I'm horizontal!"

Brena laughed as much as she could with Meredith still latched on to her face, and then reached for the hem of her skirt. "Fine, fine, you pull whatever you want since we're taking a cab. Can I please pull a different skirt out of my bag? This is indecent, Mer!"

"Nope. You have legs, bars have men, let 'em look." She dragged Brena out of the bathroom and into the main area of the bedroom, shoving her blindly toward Nick's bed. "Speaking of men, there's one! See what Deaglan thinks!" Nick groaned in response, flipping up a middle finger at Meredith. Deaglan clapped his hands and nodded his head, and Brena turned to Nick after giving her uncle a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"Okay, Nick. Tell me how silly this all is." Brena sounded resigned to taking a few barbs from him, and half-ducked her head. "I feel – as Meredith would say – caked." She rubbed the back of her hand against her cheek, dusting foundation and powder from her skin.

"Honestly? Bren, you look good. Maybe a little on the tall side, but...enh. Fuck short guys." He gestured at her shoes, a pair of heels that'd put most things the Divas wore to shame.

"See? Oh, Mer, I told you it was too much. Please, now, can I put on something reasonable?"

"Nope, no time," Nick cut in, "I promised Deaglan a guy's night in! We're gonna play cards and smoke a cigar or two, but I need you to leave before the strippers get here. Your Uber-car is waiting. Go."

For a second, Brena froze, before breaking into gut-wrenching laughter that had her eyeliner running down her face from tears. "Nick, good grief. Just...good grief." She snatched a tissue from the box at Deaglan's bedside; he gave her a confused look as she blotted at the rivers running under her eyes. "Have fun, Nick. And, let me apologize now for how surly Meredith will be in the morning. She doesn't hang over very well." Meredith slapped Brena's arm, grabbed her hand, and half-dragged her out the door, promising to fix her eyeliner in the cab.

* * *

A few hours in, and Brena could tell something was weighing heavily on Meredith's mind. She'd slugged back shot after shot of lower-shelf whiskey, then stared morosely into her pint of Guinness, sighing deeply every few minutes. Brena sipped at her own drink, waiting for her friend to speak. Occasionally, a cheer would come up from the group of men over by the dartboards, and Meredith would turn and look wistfully in their direction. After one particularly rowdy shout, Meredith shrugged, turned back to the table, and slammed back her beer in one fluid motion.

It hit Meredith all at once: things would fundamentally change for her and Brena once Deaglan passed, and what it – they, she and Brena – were, as people, would no longer be the same. It had to be impossible, she reasoned, to call up the woman who helped sheet your dead uncle's brain into slide-segments and ask her to go out to brunch or a movie. There wouldn't be any more room for hazelnut cake, or frozen lasagna. It would be hard to call anyone or have real emotional space for them, given those circumstances, of course, but even more so when there were still-warm organs and raw emotions involved. Meredith had no idea how Brena would remember her, and that terrified her.

"Something's wrong," Brena's voice was utterly flat, and cut in out of nowhere, "You're drinking like you're one of them," she gestured at the dart players, "And not like we're two girls out on a lark. So, out with it. You talked me out of the building, but it's feeling like I'm boring you to tears."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Bren, it's not _that_. It's..." Meredith trailed off and stared into the foamy bottom of her glass before waving it in the direction of the bartender, who nodded from across the room. She pointed over to Brena's glass, still full, and the bartender nodded again. "It's that...when are we _ever_ going to do this again?"

Brena frowned, and reached for Meredith's hands across the table. "I don't understand you. Why _wouldn't_ we do this again?" Squeezing Meredith's hands, hard, she fought to see her friend's reasoning. "Mer, you're the only friend I've really _got_ , anymore. I'm sorry I was so stubborn about going out tonight, if that's what you mean. I wasn't trying to upset you, I'm just so leery of leaving Deaglan alone. The reality is..." Brena trailed off. "The reality is, even if he looks good, sounds good, now, there's no guarantee it won't all fall off tomorrow." A server appeared with their drinks, and Brena passed her whiskey to Meredith, opting to snag her friend's Guinness from the tray.

"And when it does, that's when we're going to be _lost_ , Brena, that's the fucking game of it all! It'll be just...done!" Meredith slammed back Brena's whiskey, banged the glass down on the table, and threw herself back in their booth while waving for another. "Brena, you don't understand. I'm there almost as much as you are, but I'm the one watching him die."

Dumbfounded, Brena opened and closed her mouth several times before responding. "Mer...I'm going to hope you didn't mean that how it came out, or that I didn't understand it. What do you think I'm doing with him, if not the same thing?"

"You're _living_ with him! You take him out, take pictures, dress him, you're playful and loving and gentle and the _only_ thing I _ever_ do is write down how much worse he's gotten since the last time I wrote down how bad he's doing." Meredith snatched the new glass of whiskey off the server's tray almost as fast as he appeared with it. "You see him happy, Bren. You _make_ him happy. I take him to appointments that he cries through, where he's poked and prodded and drugged so that eventually I can help cut him apart. And what happens then?"

"Meredith, that's enough now." It was Brena's turn to drink heavily, and she dabbed at her mouth firmly before she spoke again, removing all traces of the foam from the Guinness. "You've had a bit too much tonight, I think, and we should probably be going, that's all."

"Let me _tell_ you what happens then," Meredith continued, looking frighteningly sober. " _Then_ , you're devastated. _Then_ , I'm part of an autopsy team. _Then_ , we have no reason to see each other, talk to each other, have any kind of a friendship, _nothing_." She heaved in a deep breath. "Then I'm just some nurse and you're just some patient's family member and the personal is professional because it _has_ to be. That's how this shit _works_. Fuck, Bren, that's the _only_ way this shit works."

"Do you think I don't understand those things, Mer?" Brena drank again, but it looked pained, as though she was doing it to give her eyes something to look at that wasn't Meredith's face. "I know what your job is. My job is to let it happen. To know that you're Meredith, but you're also Nurse Meredith, and the two aren't mutually exclusive _or_ the same thing. You can't honestly expect me to lose Deaglan and walk back out into the world able to pick up where I left off, do you? My friends – my _old_ friends, the ones who aren't around as much now...Mer, they don't know me, anymore. I don't know them. I can't just grab up those relationships and keep on like nothing happened, nothing changed. Meredith, dear God, I don't think _I_ know _me_ , anymore. And without Deaglan, I'd know even less. If you really think I'd just walk away from the _one_ relationship I have, in the midst of all that...then maybe we need the bottle, and not the glasses." Brena's voice choked, caught on every few words, and she was struggling to not sound anything but sympathetic. She knew Meredith was invested in Deaglan; she hadn't understood the depth of Meredith's investment in her.

"It's not _fair_ , Brena. It's just not. I don't – I won't – know where I fit, once he's gone. What, is it, 'On to the next study!' or do I get a chance to mourn, too? Do I watch you walk away like this never happened? Nick is gonna have a place in your life, don't even fuckin' lie, but I'm _nothing_ once Deaglan's gone. You're gonna want, gonna need your space from that fuckin' hospital, and where do I fit? God, I sound like such a selfish fuckin' bitch for even thinkin' like that. 'Wow, gee, Brena, make sure you still like me once your dad dies, okay?' Like..I shouldn't even be on your mind, when that happens, and I know it."

"First, Nick isn't even a factor in this. And second-"

"Shut up, Bren. Nick is a factor. You're finally _happy_. Fuck, _he's_ happy. I knew you'd chill him out when I put him in your room, but I didn't think he'd, like, fall for you."

"Like I said," Brena continued, doggedly, "Nick isn't a part of this conversation. It's about you. Us. Mer, you're the only person I've got in my life who actually _understands_ what I'm going through with Deaglan. The only person who isn't afraid of him, or of me. When he does pass away, there's going to be changes, for sure, but I -"

"You're _always_ going to think of Nick in a good light. He's part of you _living_ again. He has a life that isn't the hospital, he has _nothing_ to do with Deaglan, he's _clean_. Even if he does remind you of Deaglan, it's gonna be the good times. The photos, the quilts, dinner together, all that shit. Me? I'm going to be part of losing Deaglan. Part of his dying. His death. The study." Meredith went for her drink and came up with it empty. "Deaglan's the thing tying us together, and he's gonna die, and I'm gonna be there right along with you. How are you gonna think of that, Bren? Hm?"

Sighing, Brena bottomed out her Guinness and waved for another from the bar. "I'll think of how much you care about him, Mer. What else can I do?"

* * *

Much writing credit (like, near co-authorship, really - I was stuck) to WillowEdmond for HUGE chunks of dialogue in this, along with progression and tone - without 2am, I would never have gotten this out. Dolph's stripper-one-liner in this chapter is purely her creation.

Also, to Emilee, EyexLinerxWhore, Mom2, startrekfan (WELCOME!), AWrestlingGod, and captainbart - thank you for all of your support! Captain and AWG, reviews are forthcoming.

**Updated to add: Big hugs and big thanks to Nattiebroskette; my girl is going through some ish right now, and just the fact she took the time to read this, given the circumstances, means the world to me.**

Love and cookies!


	17. Party Of One

Sorry, readers - I'll edit in my kudos and thanks in the morning. It's 12:32 EST right now, and I'm too tired to be coherent. Thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites. And please, don't be afraid to drop a comment in the review form, even if it's just "OMG u sux dolfie iz dum" - at least then I know you're reading!

Love and cookies! 

* * *

From the moment Brena and Meredith walked out the door, Nick had the undivided attention of the one man whose brain he wanted to pick about Brena, and also no hope whatsoever of actually picking it. Deaglan, in turn, was watching Nick, almost waiting for a conversation to start. Shuffling over to Deaglan's stack of books, Nick flipped through the pages of a well-worn paperback, smiling and breathing deeply when Brena's gingery scent floated up off the pages. Deaglan, attuned to things in ways Nick didn't quite understand, hit the book from Nick's hands and looked at him expectantly, as if to say, 'Forget the book, just talk about her.' Happily, Nick obliged him.

"You win, ol' man. I've got issues with her. I mean, shit, I've got issues, period. But your kid...man, I dunno." Deaglan grunted, and Nick sat down on the foot of his bed after picking up the book, fiddling with the controls to raise its head until Deaglan was able to look at him directly. "I came in like an asshole, and I owe you an apology for that. But you know what got me to slow down? Your girl. Seriously, she's all kinds of right and wrong, and I'm not gonna figure it out. Fuck, I'm just gonna be the angry guy from the next bed, and then – no offense – when you're gone, she's gone."

A growl followed, low and warning, and Nick couldn't tell if he upset Deaglan by talking about his death, or by something else entirely. Throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender, he continued. "See? I'm even fucking it up with you." Deaglan banged his feet down on the bed. "Okay, okay, calm down. What did I do? I mean...I'm sorry I said you were...you know...dying." Nick quieted on the last word, and Deaglan banged his foot again.

Resting his hand on Deaglan's ankle, Nick spoke again. "Okay, I think that means my guess was wrong." Deaglan snorted; Nick tried again. "Was it...well, what the fuck _was_ it? I apologized, that was okay. What else did I – wait – you're pissed I said she was gonna leave? C'mon ol' man, what the fuck would she stick around for?"

A snort, and Nick stopped to think. "Okay...fair response...but – what _would_ she stick around for? She sticks around for you, obviously. I hope it was okay that Meredith took her out. That was kinda my idea." Another snort, and Nick continued, but let his eyes wander to the pattern on Deaglan's quilt. "You seem like you're okay with that. Hopefully she comes back happy. Like, I know she wants to be here with you, but even you've gotta admit, she's here a _lot_. She loves you, but you can't want her to be spending all her time here. Bren told me you and your wife...oh, fuck, Nemeth, think, what was her name...Hazel! Brena told me you and Hazel wanted her to do her own thing in university, you know...follow her dreams. And now she's here, so...what does she dream, anymore?"

Deaglan hummed, a low, warm sound that caused Nick to look toward the head of the bed. "She tells you, doesn't she?"

"Birds." Deaglan was almost solemn. "Fly away, birds."

"I feel like that means more than just 'Scram, Tweety.' What're you trying to tell me?" Nick rested his hand on Deaglan's shin, pondering Deaglan's meaning. "I mean, I can be all meta and shit. You're telling me she wants to fly away, but I don't think that's it. Like, yeah, you know her better than I do, but if she was gonna fly away, she woulda done it by now. That's not her. She's too...loyal? Too devoted? She's too _something_ to just up and bail on you. I mean, you heard her in the cafeteria. You and Hazel gave her the chance, and she _still_ came home when you needed her."

" _Birds_ ," Deaglan persisted. "Birds fly." There was some connection Nick wasn't making, something about birds and Brena and flying, and damned if he wasn't going to dig it out of Deaglan's mind before the night was done.

"Okay, birds. Let's start there. Hazel kept birds, right?" Deaglan's response, a sort of lilting vowel-sound, seemed positive, so Nick kept talking. "And you keep going back to the thing about the birds, so...you liked the birds. Brena remembers the birds, and how much Hazel liked them...c'mon, old man, what am I missing here? Something about the three of you and your birds. Something from when she was a kid?"

Banging his feet on the bed, Deaglan threw his head back and groaned. "Okay! Okay, jeez, ol' man, you don't have to give me that much shit. I'm here because I can't think right, either. Cut me some slack, I know I'm not getting what you're trying to tell me." Nick threw his hands up, then dragged them down through his hair. "Trust me, I _wish_ I was getting what you're telling me. I want to figure her out." Shaking his head, Nick slid from the foot of Deaglan's bed and began to pace.

"You know what's fucked up? Any other time, having this conversation with some chick's dad would be, like, _killing_ me. But with you, it's not so bad. And it's not just that I can talk and you won't jump on me, it's because it feels...normal." Nick chuckled, dryly, and continued. "And who the fuck ever thought I'd say 'normal' about a relatio..." He trailed off, slowing to a stop in the middle of the room. "What the fuck am I saying?"

"Birds!" Deaglan smiled, a genuine grin, and clapped his hands. "Birds, birds!"

"Relationship. Birds. Okay...I'm not there yet, I don't follow you, but okay." Nick shook his head. "Why did I say that? Relationship? I mean, yeah, okay, it's got a lot of different meanings. I relate to her. We relate to each other. Relationship. Yeah." Walking to the window, Nick surveyed what little he could see of the outside. "You know what's fucked up? She's so nice it's sick, she's been stupid-patient with me, she loves you-"

Deaglan banged his feet again, and Nick turned to look at him. "Let me guess, birds? Listen, ol'man, you gotta give me more than that to work with."

"Hazel's birds. Brena bird. Hazel! Brena!" Deaglan was trying to draw lines and connect dots, and while in his mind it likely was as clear as day, to Nick it was clear as mud.

"What about them?"

"Bird!"

"Birds, man, I know. Birds." Nick huffed, and resumed pacing. Deaglan growled, angrily, and threw his quilt down, away from him.

"Bird, bird, bird!"

"Deaglan, man, I know. Birds. Er, sorry. _Bird_." Nick clipped the 's' intentionally, then sighed, thinking he might have frustrated Brena's uncle past the point of what little reason they were both capable of engaging in.

Nick walked back to the bed and began to straighten out the fabric, but stopped once he'd gotten it halfway back up over Brena's uncle. On the quilt was a large, green and blue peacock. Hazel had stitched in small flourishes of purple fabric, embroidered the outlines of feathers and leaves on the pale orange background around the bird, and put in a blocky, perfectly straight border of green, blue, and purple rectangles around the whole thing. The rectangles were printed with three different, tiny patterns – hearts, cloverleafs, and flowers. "Okay...hang on. Here's a bird." Nick paused, making sure to make eye contact with Deaglan. "Can you tell me about this one?"

Smiling, Deaglan reached for the edge of the quilt; Nick had pulled it toward the head of the bed, and Deaglan worked hard to coordinate his movement enough to grip the fabric. He wasn't able to manage fine motor skills like using silverware, but bunching up two handfuls of fabric was still possible. Hands swirling and shaking, he stabbed a finger down at the border, landing on a rectangle printed with blue hearts. "Hazel! Hazel!" He lifted his hand up, and with much more effort, stabbed downward again, landing on the same rectangle. He grunted, then tried again, this time hitting a rectangle printed with the cloverleaf pattern. He looked up at Nick, eyes watery, and the sound that followed was somewhere between a frustrated wail and a determined vowel. With his other hand, he patted his leg, then his chest.

"Okay, hold on. The little hearts are for Hazel, I get that. Now...you mean the clover things are for you, right?"

A happy "Ah!" followed, and Deaglan slid his hand over to the flowers. Poking the fabric, then poking Nick, the name that followed was completely unsurprising. "Brena!" The strips with the flower print were longer than the strips with the cloverleaf and heart patterns, and Nick tried to work the clues together. Deaglan looked at him, waited, and then cautiously offered up the same single word: "Brena?"

"The flowers are for her?"

"Brena!" Deaglan clapped his hands together again, and smiled. Nick inhaled deeply, and forced himself to slow his mind and think.

"Okay. There's a pattern for each of you. I get that part. And Hazel loved birds, so that's the peacock. So...this is a quilt about...your wife?"

Deaglan threw his head back and sighed, clearly frustrated. "Okay," Nick rushed to try again, "Okay, wait, wait, I'll get it. It's not about Hazel. Lemme think." Nick looked at each pattern closely, stood back and examined the peacock from a distance, walked up and traced the outlines of threads, and reached zero conclusions. "Ol' man...you got me stuck. I don't know what you mean. Shit, I don't know what _I_ mean. Stuck is right. Stuck on her, like a fuckin' high school kid. Like, do I need to pass her a note? I'm a goddamned grown man, and I don't know what to say to her." Nick walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down, slouching. "Like, I _can_ talk to her, but she's so focused on you. She loves you. How do I even cut in on that? I mean...I _can't_ cut in on that. I don't want to; you're everything to her."

Shaking the quilt, Deaglan seemed to be gesturing it at Nick. "Deaglan, I _know_. Something about the bird and the pattern. I just don't know what you mean. Do you...do you want me to ask Brena, when she gets back?"

Dropping the quilt, Deaglan burrowed down against his pillow, smiling. Nick laughed, and shook his head. "Okay, I'll ask her. What do you want me to do with whatever she tells me?"

There Deaglan was silent, so Nick continued. "If she even tells me anything, I mean. You know what I think? I think Brena cares about everyone and I'm probably just imagining what I want to, when it comes to her. I want her to care about me. It's _nice_ when she cares about me. And, she's sent up just about every signal in the fuckin' book that she's not interested. So tell me something, ol'man. Why do I _want_ her to be interested? She's just gonna get sick of me. Of the shitty ex-girlfriends and the reputation that comes with them. Being alone, because if I'm working I'm gone all the time." Nick sighed, then continued. " _If_ I'm even working. Dr. Morgan isn't exactly giving me a green light. And if I can, then there's all the chair shots and all the concussions and what that could turn in to. Fuck, Deaglan, she said she's afraid of herself, what she's gonna be like at your age. What do I do with any of that? I don't even know how to tie my shoes, half the time."

Deaglan's face was passive as he listened; Nick wandered back to his own bed, where his fingers played over his quilt. "You know what I want her to do? I want her to tell me it's worth the chance. Or at least...that she's always gonna care." Deaglan hummed lowly in response, and Nick laid down. "I guess we wait, and see if her evening was worth the chance. Start there."

* * *

Brena and Meredith managed to turn their evening around; Brena had dragged Meredith to one of the billiards tables in the pub, saying she refused to mope on her friend's pocketbook. Meredith laughed, but agreed to shoulder their bar tab. They started a game of billiards, but Meredith had to stand directly behind Brena each time she lined up a shot, in order to prevent any of the darts players from getting a view up her skirt as she bent. Midway through, someone threw a handful of quarters into the jukebox, and seemingly everyone in the pub set to shouting along with the various songs that came up. By the time the bartender announced last call, both Brena and Meredith were in much better spirits, as well as soused in their spirits from the night. Meredith was much more a drinker than Brena, and Brena was lost somewhere between comfortable, tired, and amused at the world.

Flagging down a cab, Brena went back to the hospital, leaving Meredith to take a cab to her own apartment. Trying to enter the room as quietly as possible, she kicked off her shoes near the door and bee-lined into the bathroom, giggling drunkenly at herself and her appearance. No matter how she scrubbed, the eyeliner Meredith used refused to budge, prompting Brena to groan. After a similar tangle with her lipstick, Brena gave up, changed into yoga pants and a hoodie, and wandered back into the main room, washcloth in hand. She was singing to herself and dabbing at her face as she walked to Deaglan's bed, mentally still in the bar and deeper still into her conversation with Meredith.

"Well, you look like you had a good evening, Uncle D," Brena smiled down at her uncle, who wore a smile of his own as he slept. "Hopefully Nick kept you out of trouble."

"Hey, uh, Brena?" Nick whispered from his bed, trying not to startle her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Why am I not surprised you're awake, mo trodaire?" Brena invited herself over to Nick's bed, popping up on the edge and scooting back so she was seated next to Nick, who was still laying down. Ginger and smoke mixed with whiskey and cue-chalk, and Nick found himself reaching up for a strand of Brena's hair, brushing it from her face and wrapping the end gently around his finger. "Tell me you didn't wait up for me? I'd feel guilty; you already did me such a favor by staying up with Deaglan tonight." Eyes half-shut, Brena offered a lazy smile to Nick, who tugged at the end of Brena's hair before letting go, his hand resting on her shoulder.

"No, it's not that – I mean, it kinda is, yeah – I mean, I just..." Nick paused, trying to compose himself, and sat up to face her. "Do you ever feel like Deaglan's really _listening_ to you?"

Brena tilted her head, far further than she meant, brushing against the back of Nick's hand, still solidly tipsy. "Of course he listens, Nick. He's lost the ability to really respond, at least in ways that I understand, but I know he listens."

Nick nodded, and turned his hand to reach for more of Brena's hair, fingers curling against the side of her face. "Okay...then if I told you I had a conversation with Deaglan..."

"...then I'd ask what you talked about." Brena smiled, and ducked her cheek further down against Nick's hand, his fingers now fully occupied with threading through her hair. "So, mo trodaire, let's hear it. What did you and my uncle talk about all night? Which cigars were better, or which strippers were prettier?" She laughed lightly, but didn't move her face from its position. Her eyes had drifted further closed, and she felt herself take one step forward off the ledge of wakefulness.

"His quilt, but I didn't understand." Nick's thumb came up along Brena's cheekbone, and she closed her eyes completely. "He was trying to tell me something about the peacock and the patterns in the quilt, but I couldn't...I didn't..." He was having a harder and harder time focusing; Brena's skin was cream against his palm and he found himself trying to solve the problem of their awkward angle so he could kiss her.

"The peacock, you mean?" Sounding much more awake, Brena tried to follow Nick's half-question as well as answer her own. "Hazel made that for him. She had this...love, I suppose, for religion in general. The peacock means dozens of different things in different religions. In Hinduism, the peacock represents patience, kindness, and compassion. If you're Asian – well, not all Asians believe this, I suppose – but there are Asian religious myths around the peacock being a symbol of love, and of being watchful."

Brena's hand came up against Nick's, and she smiled, pressing his hand against her cheek before she continued. "For a Catholic, the peacock is supposed to represent resurrection and immortality. About the border, well, that's just my Aunt Hazel. She said a quilt was like being wrapped in love. Clovers for Deaglan, hearts for her, and-"

"And flowers for you." Nick's voice was only slightly above a whisper, and he stared at her hand over his. "So the quilt means love. That Hazel loved you all."

"Wrapped in family. Er, love. Well, both, really. She put that border in on all of her quilts. The colors would be different, the patterns wouldn't always be the same print – I've got one quilt back at the brownstone with these _terrible_ Valentine's Day hearts on it – but always clovers, hearts, and flowers. So, yes, that's what the – wait." Brena pulled away from Nick, and for a second, his hand followed her face. He forced himself to stop his reach and listen. "Did I answer your question, or was I just talking?"

"No. I mean, yes. That was what I wanted to ask you." _'And now I want to ask you if you'll stay here. Next to me. Or if you think of me...not like that. Or...like that.'_

"How on earth did you and Deaglan end up-"

"Hazel loved birds, and that's a really important bird, and the quilt is about being loved." Nick was almost talking to himself while he looked over at Deaglan's quilt. "But what did you want me to do with that, ol'man?"

"Deaglan talked to you about Hazel?" Brena brightened considerably. "Nick, that's fantastic! Tell me...I mean, please? Please tell me what he remembered?"

"How much she loved you both. It wasn't like a conversation, I had to guess a lot of it, but he kept pointing at the quilt and trying to get me to understand...well, understand something. He didn't answer my question, though." Nick was having a hard time dividing his attention between answering Brena and trying to understand the information he'd been given.

"Your question?" Brena reached out for Nick's hands, grasping them in hers as much as she could. She'd started to slip a bit toward the edge of the bed, her eyes now open, but glassy.

"Yeah, uh...no worries, it wasn't important." _'You're either too drunk for this conversation, or just drunk enough for this conversation. Which is it?'_

"Tell me anyway? If he was talking to you, it might be important to me, to something I know or remember. Then I can tell you what he meant. Er, what he was trying to tell you, about your question."

"Bren, seriously, it wasn't a big deal." Nick flipped his hands under hers, so they were palm to palm, and flexed his fingers, trying to ind a way to hold her. "Don't worry about it. If I think on it, I'll get it." _'You wouldn't tell me what you're thinking anyway, Bren. What do I do about you? Do you want to do anything about me?'_

"If you say so, mo trodaire." Brena slipped from the edge of the bed, landing clumsily on her feet and trying to shake Nick's hands loose in the process. When he didn't let go, Brena looked up at him curiously. "Yes, Nick?"

"Tell me what that means." Less a question and more a request, Nick tried to will Brena to answer him.

"Oh, that." Brena smiled. "You'll think I'm silly, Nick." He waited, quietly, still holding her hands. Brena sighed and looked down at her feet, and Nick was surprised at how self-conscious she suddenly seemed. "My fighter. It seemed fitting, given what you do, how you got here, all that." Brena cleared her throat and pulled away from Nick's hands, hard. He leaned in after her, snatching her back toward him, but she dropped her head and turned toward Deaglan's bed. "I don't know what he was trying to tell you, Nick. I'm sorry."

"Bren, look at me?"

Brena's eyeliner was cloudy and smeared around her eyes, and her lips were still tinted red despite her best efforts to scrub them clean. The whiskey she'd drowned in at the bar was still spicing her breath, and Nick could tell she couldn't focus clearly on his face despite how close they were to each other. Part of his mind screamed to lean in and kiss her, part of his mind told him to go to bed and leave the whole thing alone. He pulled her up against the edge of the bed, leaned down, and at the last second, tilted himself toward her side, letting go of her hands.

"I'm glad you had a good time, tonight." _'I have no idea if you had a good time, tonight'_

Closing her eyes and letting a fleeting smile enjoy its time across her lips, Brena shook her head. "No...well...it was..." She leaned into the curve of Nick's shoulder, sliding her arms around him and holding him tightly before backing away. "You're right. It was good. We, you know, me and Mer, we talked about a lot of things we needed to get out in the open."

"Yeah...uh...you and Mer are pretty close."

"It makes me wish I could say more, Nick, but...that's probably the alcohol talking." Brena chuckled silently, rolling her eyes at herself, and stumbled over to Deaglan's bedside chair. She landed hard, Deaglan grumbling in bed above her.

"Maybe you should let it talk, Bren?" _'C'mon, you're really close to saying...something. Should I say anything?'_

It was too late; her eyes were shut and she was tilted up onto her hip, her head laying on the armrest of the chair, one hand awkwardly over her head on Deaglan's bed as she slept. Nick sighed, irritated at himself. "Maybe I should have talked. Ol'man, what am I supposed to do with this? What _can_ I do?"


	18. The Morning After

Nick was positively delicate with Meredith the next morning, knowing she'd likely have a hangover. Shockingly, she looked more sad than anything, and Nick couldn't put her mood together with anything Brena had said the night before. For her part, Brena was up at her usual time, brewing coffee and keeping the lights low for Meredith's benefit.

"You look a bit...unwell...Mer. Maybe you'd feel better with some tea? It's a bit lighter than coffee, at any rate, and I can go up to that Chinese restaurant you like and get you some soup, too. Actually, they have jasmine tea, I can just get both." Brena looked unaffected by her night of alcohol and chair-sleep, other than her persistent rolling of her shoulders. She looked like she was trying to work a crimp out of the one she'd laid on in the chair, but was getting nowhere.

"Christ, Bren, you hafta yell?" Brena's voice wasn't any more than a library whisper, but Meredith was having none of it. "If you wanna go out, go ahead, but not on my account. Get yourself some food, too."

"Oh, I will. Deaglan loves their crispy duck, but it takes quite a while to make. That's why I'm asking what you want now, so I can call ahead and then pick it up for lunch." She smiled, pawing at the leftover liner still ringing her eyes. "Mer, you wouldn't happen to know how to get this off, would you? I feel like a working girl that's gone through a washing machine."

"Don't change the topic, Bren. She said _you_ need to get something to eat, too." Nick, yawning and stretching, had been somewhere between asleep and listening to Brena and Meredith as they bantered. "Duck sounds...interesting. Better than tuna salad, am I right?"

Brena cringed, and after glancing at Nick over her shoulder, faced Meredith. "I'll...I'll pull their menu up on my laptop and bring it out to the desk. Just give me a second." She was hoping that her mention of the desk might get Meredith to leave the room. Brena didn't remember much of her night after she'd gotten back to the clinic; she was hoping she hadn't done anything foolish or embarrassing, especially where Nick was concerned. Meredith raised an eyebrow and looked past Brena to Nick, who shrugged and started searching through the blankets for his shirt.

* * *

What Nick wanted to do was shove Meredith from the room, sit Brena down on his bed, make her eat a cinnamon roll, do _something_ to her shoulders to undo whatever had happened overnight, explain to her all the ways she'd crawled into the nooks and crannies of his mind, and follow that up with...well, he wasn't sure what. He knew he'd wanted to kiss her last night. He knew that, even with sleep-frazzled hair and ruined makeup, teeth he wasn't sure she'd brushed yet, and yoga pants that looked like they'd been pulled from the bottom of a laundry bag, he'd still want to kiss her as soon as she walked over to his bed – which, predictably, she did.

And, equally predictably, though no less disappointing, he bunched up her quilt in his hands, held his breath, and froze.

"Listen, Nick, about last night," Brena looked miserably uncomfortable, "If I said anything...well...foolish...I apologize. Meredith and I drank our weight in whiskey, and I have this horrible feeling I came back...sloppy. Not myself, anyway."

"You were fine, Bren. We talked about Deaglan and his quilt, and you," Nick paused to chuckle, "You explained what mo trodaire means."

Brena groaned and threw her hands up over her face, prompting Nick to lean forward and try to pull her closer to the bedside – which only resulted in him grabbing the bottom of her shirt and tangling in the drawstrings of her yoga pants. Brena's hands flew down over Nick's, and she tripped over her feet as he moved her up toward the head of the bed.

"Chill out, Bren. Seriously, relax. You didn't do anything, what'd you say, sloppy? You didn't do anything sloppy last night. You looked relaxed, you sounded happy, it was good." Nick hadn't let go of Brena's drawstrings, and she hadn't let go of his hands. His voice dropped low, and he continued. "I should...I should probably apologize to you, though."

"Why?" Brena found her throat dry, forcing her into a whisper.

"I didn't – I mean, we didn't – like, I just wanted to..." Nick struggled. "I think I was being kind of a dick, because we were talking about Deaglan. You were drunk, and you were sitting on my bed, and I-"

"Mo Dhia," Brena strangled out, "I thought you were going to say you _did_ do something! You're absolutely terrible, did you know that?" Trying to slap away Nick's hands while laughing, Brena ended up managing to undo the knot in the string of her yoga pants instead. While she was struggling through her drawstring, Nick threw his head back into his pillow and mentally berated himself for his choice of phrasing.

"No, Bren, I don't mean...like... Take it easy! Stop! Stop. You're gonna lose your pants." He let go of her pants only to grab hold of her wrists, trying to stop her from untying, rather than retying, the knot. "I meant, you were sitting on my bed when we were talking, and I was-" _'What, Nemeth, you were playing with her hair like a two-year-old? Yeah, she won't flip out about that, not at all.'_ "Yeah, I was trying to talk to you about Deaglan. It wasn't...I think I got your hopes up about him." _'There. Saved it. From what, I dunno, but I saved it.'_

"Oh, Nick," Brena exhaled, " _Please_ , don't ever do that to me again. Not the talking about Deaglan, just...I thought...you said I was on your bed. I mean, that's fine – at least, I guess that's fine, maybe I need better boundaries – but it sounded like...well…" She looked down at his hands, still wrapped around her wrists, and continued giggling. "I should go figure out Meredith's lunch. Let me stop talking. Honestly, what am I thinking?" Brena adjusted her waistband and her shirt, then continued, "You're...and I'm so...what I mean is, you have no reason _to_ try anything like _that._ I'm just...me. I get the feeling I should apologize to you; I think I was indulging a little wishful thinking. Like I said, I'm an awkward schoolgirl."

"Brena..." Something in Nick's voice was warning. "You're...I dunno. You're thinking something. Or avoiding thinking something. Whatever."

A sly smile, followed immediately by a guilty look crossed her face for a moment, and she slipped her wrists out of Nick's grasp before silently walking out of the room and toward the nurses' station, completely forgetting to take her laptop with her. He could still feel her wrists, warm and thin, in his hands, and he had to resist the urge to drag her pillow over his face and scream into it. Simultaneously full of words and struck mute, he considered if better boundaries might be just the thing for both of them.

* * *

"Mer, how much did I drink last night?" Brena's voice was pure curiosity, and Meredith squinted up at her from the desk.

"Enough that you weren't straight on your shoes, but not so much that you were ready to throw up. Why?" She came around the desk and steered Brena toward a bank of visitor's chairs. "Something happen?"

"I don't think so? Nick's being particularly odd this morning, and he said I was sitting on his bed last night. It sounded like he was going to say...something...happened, but then he said we just talked about Deaglan. There's just something not _right_ about all of this, and I half-feel like he's trying to spare me from having embarrassed myself." Brena put her head in her hands. "Meredith. I told you, I didn't need to go out. This has me confused. Oh, and then I _laughed_ at him...what was I thinking? He was trying to talk to me about Deaglan, and I made light of it."

"Knock it off, Bren. If he said nothing happened, nothing happened. Quit overthinkin' shit. He's decent, he's not gonna do anything like that." Meredith aimed a halfhearted shove at Brena's shoulder. "Why are you so upset, anyway? Even if somethin' did happen, worst it's gonna be is a kiss. Christ, you two both act like you're in fuckin' grade school. Honestly, why _didn't_ you just jump on him? Should I talk to him? I mean, it's not like you're gettin' anywhere." Meredith snorted. "Plus, I doubt he's upset about you laughing at him. You two _always_ cut up around each other."

"No! Meredith, no. Really, don't bring it up with him, please. It's awkward enough as it is. I'm begging you, don't make it worse." _'I think I tattled on myself, having a bit of a crush on him. When did that happen? He's always just been Nick. I really do need to put some distance between the two of us.'_

"Fine, fine." Meredith put her hands up in a gesture intended to stop Brena mid-rant. "But I'm still tellin' you, you're fuckin' overthinkin' it. And I want the almond chicken for lunch." Meredith went back to the desk, leaving Brena to sit in the visitor's chairs, staring at her feet.

* * *

"I'm about done with your girl, ol'man. For real. This shit is outta hand and I already can't think straight on my own. I don't need help from her with fuckin' up my head."

Deaglan growled, and looked at Nick, stabbing his fingers down into the quilt. "Yeah, yeah, birds and shit. Save it. I didn't get anywhere with her last night, and if I want to get shot down, I can go to a bar and have the option of walking away after I get blown off. Now it's...things are….it's just _weird_ , now, and I gotta look at her every day because you're here. Tryin' to tell her about you and the quilt was one big fuckin' dodge. I'm _not_ an idiot about women, and look what I'm doin' now. This is a joke."

Deaglan growled again and pulled at his quilt, hard, almost as though he was trying to tear it. "Okay, okay, stop. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, but with Brena, man, I don't know what the fuck. You didn't see how she came back, last night. She wasn't loaded, but she was set good enough, and she still won't actually _do_...or _tell_ me-"

"What won't I tell you, Nick?" Ghosts didn't move as quietly as Brena; Nick nearly startled off of his bed, not having heard her come back to the room. "You said nothing happened, so what do I need to explain? Or rather, what didn't I do? I don't think I've ever seen you so...off." Brena walked over to Deaglan's bed, an orderly with breakfast trays not far behind her. "Was there something I was _supposed_ to do?"

Nick watched as Brena fussed and fretted her way through setting up her uncle's meal, but he chose not to reply. Instead, he grabbed a change of clothing, rattled around the bathroom for a few minutes, then quickly walked out of the room, turning in the direction of the cafeteria without saying another word to Brena. Deaglan banged his hands down on the edge of his overbed table, almost upending his plate entirely.

"Uncle D! What on earth?" Brena steadied his plate, then sighed and set down his silverware. "Why do I get the feeling that I've made some sort of mistake? I never should have gone out last night...it's like Nick is angry again. This changed too many things. Staying in. That's just how it works."

Brena's uncle threw his head back against his pillow, and refused to eat.

* * *

Meredith half looked up at Nick as he headed down the hallway at breakneck speed, then snapped her head up to attention and started to trot after him. "Prince Blondie, slow it down! Wait up a sec!"

Not in the mood to listen, Nick tried upping his pace further, but the mix of irritation and adrenaline caused him to catch the toe of his shoe on the carpet, and he stumbled up against the hallway wall. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath and not understanding at all why he'd be out of breath.

"Okay, what the fuck?" Meredith hooked a hand under his shoulder and shoved him upright. "First Brena, now you. Either you both need to get drunk and jump on each other, or we never need to mention the word 'pub' ever again."

Nick shook her hand off of him, hard, and turned to walk away. Meredith, having had her fill of the whole day well before lunch, grabbed a handful of Nick's shirt and yanked backwards. "Not so fast, Drama King. You, me, the goo-room. March." She shoved him forward, but refused to let go of his shirt, quick-stepping it down a series of hallways past the cafeteria and leading him to a door marked, 'Janitorial'.

"You're fucking kidding me," Nick rolled his eyes, "Meredith, we are _not_ talking in th-"

Kicking the door open and shoving Nick inside, he collided with a rack of mops followed by a tall metal shelf. Bottles and plastic-wrapepd packages flew everywhere, and he staggered as he turned around. Meredith shuffled through a stack of yellow folding floor signs, coming up with one reading, "Hazardous Area." She placed it outside the door after peering up and down the hallway, then ducked back inside with Nick.

"Yes, we _are_ talking in the janitor's closet. I can't put you anywhere else right now, and she'd find us, anyway. She already asked me _not_ to talk to you, which means something happened. You have three seconds to start talking, or I get the bleach and a urinal plunger."

Nick cringed, but complied. "Meredith, honestly, _nothing_ happened. She came back...not drunk, but pretty tipsy...and she sat on my bed. It was...nice. She was relaxed, for once, not all caught up in everyone else. We talked about Deaglan and Hazel, and quilts. I swear to God, that's _it_." _'Except for the parts where you were...and she was...but whatever.'_ Huffing out a sigh at perpetuating an untruth, Nick continued, "She's upset because I phrased shit like a dumbass, this morning. Brena said she was worried she acted dumb once she got back. I told her she didn't, but I told her I owed her an apology."

Meredith threw her hands in the air, rolling her eyes as she did, then stopped and eyed Nick suspiciously. "Wait. What'd you _do_ , Prince Blondie? You just said _nothing_ happened, so why the apology?"

"Nothing did happen. I apologized because..."

Meredith waited, but her temper won out over her patience. "I swear to fuckin' God, if you _touched_ her, I'm gonna-"

"No," Nick whispered, "I thought I upset her because I was talking about Deaglan. And..."

" _And_?" Unimpressed, Meredith pushed him for details. "You talk about Deaglan all the time, that's not fuckin' gonna upset her. Christ, do you not remember the shit you said when you came in? Believe me, you _talked_ about Deaglan." She snorted. "If Bren can still play nice with you after that, there's literally no way on this earth that you can fuck up. So, what else went on?"

" _And_ because I wanted to...I don't know. I wanted _something,_ I just dunno the right word, anymore. She was sloshed, nothing happened. You know about Amy, you know I wasn't gonna do anything. Brena was just...I think I made it sound like something happened."

"You are _such_ a fucking dumbfuck that you're almost too slow for stupid." Meredith flipped the light switch off and left the closet, not bothering to take Nick with her. He heard her stomp off down the hallway, but let her go.

Standing there in complete darkness, breathing in the scent of ammonia, soap, and a thousand other products meant to clean and repair, Nick shook his head and rested it against one of the metal supports of a shelf. "Yeah, she's got you there, Nemeth. You are _absolutely_ a dumbfuck. Just let it go." He looked up at the ceiling, not that it looked any different from the walls in the blackness. "Brena's got enough other shit to deal with, and like you said. She goes when Deaglan does, or maybe you get lucky and you get out of here before that, and you go back to work, and..." He trailed off, trying to will his way through the rest of the sentence. "And...and then..." He breathed in deeply, then forced the words. "And then, you're back to the way you were."

Cautiously, Nick edged forward and opened the door, grateful to find the hallway still empty when he stepped out. "Ragdolls and all," he whispered, stepping into the hallway, "Because who the fuck cares?" _'Stop caring, Nemeth. Stop wanting shit you can't have.'_ He remembered how warm his hand was, the first time she ever held it, followed by the cotton-candy softness of her hair wrapped around his fingers last night, when she came to his bedside and stayed, seemingly not wanting to be anywhere else.

* * *

"Oh, Mer, no, no...tell me you didn't." Brena nearly wailed, trying to keep her voice low enough to not wake Deaglan. After he'd refused breakfast, he'd ignored Brena while she tried to read to him. When she brought out photo albums, he turned his head away. Grasping at straws, Brena put on a movie, but Deaglan threw the remote on the floor and promptly went to sleep. "It's bad enough Uncle D knows something's off; you didn't have to advertise the fact. You said you _wouldn't_ go talking to him."

"Bren, Nick already _knows_ shit's not right between you two. C'mon, he got whapped in the head, but it's not like he doesn't know he was arguing with you." Perched on the edge of Deaglan's bed, Meredith looked down at Brena, wedged in the chair next to the bed as though she was trying to disappear into it.

"No, that's not it. We weren't arguing. He thought we were arguing?" Brena looked confused, and Meredith's expression became gleeful.

"Gotcha! Out with it, bitch, I want to see if your story and his make sense together."

"Good grief. Meredith, I had too much to drink last night. I think I came back and was...not myself. I don't have boundaries with him, and I need some. When it comes right down to it, he's a patient, and I'm acting like we're friends from the old neighborhood. I'm pushing things, I'm being intrusive. He doesn't need the...the..."

"You didn't fuck him. You didn't even kiss him. You sat and talked to him. Please explain to me what the problem is, or should I just take 'Two Idiots Falling In Love,' for $2000, Alex?" Brena crushed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, tapping her feet on the ground in a staccato rhythm. "Brena, _please_ , stop being a fuckin' idiot. You're happy with Nick around. Deaglan's happy with Nick around. Nick left and had a temper tantrum, which apparently gave Deaglan a temper tantrum of his own," Meredith paused to poke Deaglan's leg, earning a swat from Brena for her effort, "And now I'm having a temper tantrum at you after having one at Blondie. You know what you _should_ have done last night?"

"If you say, 'kissed him,' I'm going straight to the bakery to tell them to burn the recipe for the hazelnut cake."

"You _should_ have taken him back to your house and handled things." Meredith jumped back, Brena's swat narrowly missing her. "But for real, Bren, he said you were tipsy, he said you sat on the bed and talked with him about Deaglan, and he said nothing happened. Besides, what the fuck difference would it make if something _did_ happen?"

Brena, whose mouth was open and primed for a retort, closed it so quickly she bit her tongue. She glared at Meredith, but couldn't hold the expression, so she looked at her fingernails, then her shoes, then her uncle – anywhere that wasn't Nick's bed, or the exhausted expression on Deaglan's face as he slept.

"Well?" Meredith pushed, "The difference?"

"Meredith, my life is here. Deaglan. I don't know how much time I have with him; I have neither the need nor the reason to take my focus off of him. When he's gone – and like we said last night, that could be tomorrow, that could be ten years from now – _then_ , I'll have the time to think about what I wanted to happen. About whatever people do."

"Each other," Meredith added, pointedly, "They do each other." She winked. "And thank you for admitting that you wanted something to happen."

Brena laughed, but the sound was brittle. "That may be true, but that's not what's going to happen here. Deaglan's so...and Nick is..." She shook her head. "Look. Of course Nick is wonderful. We get along, but I'm not..."

"You can't come up with a good reason not to, can you?" Meredith put her hand on Brena's knee, trying to be something other than needling. "Brena, yeah, when I said it I was drunk, but you know what? Nick _cares_ about you, patient or no patient, and _don't_ make the argument that it's only because he got hit in the head."

"But that's just _it_ , Mer. He _is_ a patient. He's a celebrity of some sort – in whatever world of sports he functions in, he's important. He's got a whole life to get back to, once he's done here, and I've got...well, I don't know. But it's quite a bit different from what he's used to, I can almost guarantee. Mer, I don't even know where he lives. What his family is like. If he has a favorite color. All those important, or inane, things that normal people talk about when they're getting to know each other? They've not happened, here. I know he got hurt because of a coworker, he knows I have a dying uncle. That's not a foundation to build anything on, kissing or otherwise, but they _are_ reasons to leave well enough alone."

"Those aren't reasons, Bren. Or at least, it's not shit that you can't solve with a conversation. And then, you know, by actually kissing him."

Brena shook her head, and the motion was pronounced, like she was trying to prevent Meredith's statement from slipping into some crevice of her mind and changing things around. "Besides, I've got to be thinking about Deaglan's birthday, right now, not about a virtual stranger."

Well, there was a hell of a topic change, and Nick is _not_ a stranger." Meredith stood from Deaglan's bed, "But I'll go along with it. What're you planning on doing?"

"Honestly? I don't know. I haven't thought about it at any great length, yet. Some sort of cake, for sure. It's been so long since I've baked anything – I'm cheating a bit, always going to that bakery – but I was thinking it would be nice if I pulled out Hazel's old recipe for Irish cream chocolate cake, and tried my hand at that."

"Could be good," Meredith mused. "When you bring it in, you want me to make Blondie disappear?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Meredith! You make it sound like a mafia hit is going to happen." Brena giggled, and Meredith smiled, relieved. Temporarily, her friend's mood had come around.

"Nah, I just mean so he's outta your hair while you do Deaglan's birthday thing. It's what, mid-September?"

"The eighteenth. Now I just have to make it that far without things being awkward, or Deaglan being perpetually in a snit about Nick. Maybe Dr. Morgan was right, he should be moved."

"Nope. Not gonna happen." Meredith checked her watch and crossed her arms. "He stays put. You don't get to play the 'Avoid It' game with this one." Lunch was announced via a phone call to Brena's room – the Chinese restaurant had delivered everyone's meals – and Meredith took it as her cue to leave and go pick up the food from the front desk. "Good luck with Deaglan at lunch, Bren. I'll talk to you later."

Out at the nurses' station, Nick was leaning over the counter like it was the last and only thing on the earth that might hold him up. Meredith mouthed a silent, "Why me?" before scooting behind the counter, holding up a finger to tell Nick to wait while she called up front and had the delivery held at the desk.

Putting the phone in the cradle and her head in her hands, Meredith refused to look at Nick before she spoke. "I'm not fuckin' playing Dr. Phil all day. Go talk to her."

"Jesus Christ, do you and Claudio have each other on speed dial? He said the same fuckin' thing." Having called from the community phone in the day room while licking the mental wounds Meredith had inflicted, Nick spent most of the conversation trying to get Claudio to stop laughing at him and offer actual advice, but when it came, it was less than helpful. _'My friend, I am not a counselor. It is time you kept a woman around longer than the length of a hotel reservation,' is him being a smartass, not a friend. I needed some fuckin' help.'_ "Mer, it's gonna be awkward. I already tried asking C for advice, and he sucked."

"First, you said nothin' happened, so what is there to be awkward about? And second, you need to figure out what you want. Lemme guess, you got something along the lines of, 'Pull your head out of your ass' from Claudio?" Meredith snickered and ignored Nick's glare.

"Fine, fine. Yeah, that. But...here's what I don't get, why I'm bothered, I mean." Meredith perked up. "She knows I don't...think right. I don't talk right, sometimes." At Meredith's snort, Nick sighed harshly. "Okay, _fine_ , fine, I usually don't _ever_ talk right. But she _knows_ that. Why is she so upset that I said something the wrong way? After all that shit I said about Deaglan, she _still_ talked to me. But now she's talking about 'Blah blah, we need better boundaries'? Like...what the fuck, Meredith, you know?" Nick pushed a pen around the ledge of the desk as he spoke, as though it'd help his focus.

"Why don't you go ask her?" Meredith batted her eyelashes at him, and Nick threw the pen at her. "Seriously. What did you want to happen? Did you think she was gonna pull a move on you? I can give you a guess about what was goin' on in her head, but it'll do more for you both if you hear it from her."

Nick threw the pen across the desk, earning a sour look from Meredith. "Nick, go fuck yourself. And go away, I have to pick up lunch from the main desk." He looked lost for a second, then started to walk back to the day room. Meredith, exasperated nearly beyond words, stomped up behind him and shoved him toward his room. "Go away in _there_ , dumbass, she ordered lunch for you, too."

"How'd she know wha-"

"Crispy duck. You said it sounded interesting. Now _go._ " Meredith stalked off, leaving Nick confused in the middle of the hallway.

* * *

Neither he nor Brena spoke to each other when he came back into the room; she was bunched into the chair next to Deaglan's bed, her knees drawn up under her chin. Nick worked to avoid eye contact with her, and crunched himself into largely the same position up in his bed. Meredith walked in with lunch, took one look at them, and turned around to leave.

" _Nobody_ eats – and that includes Deaglan – til you two stop being stupid. _You,"_ Meredith gestured at Nick,"Either need to kiss her or get the fuck over it, and _you,_ " she gestured at Brena, "Either need to let him or...well, you know what, just let him. Jesus Christ." She slammed the door behind her as she left the room.

Nick stared blankly at the wall in front of him, absolutely frozen. _'I don't want to...to be like what Amy said. I don't want to just sit here. I don't want to make it worse. I don't want to-'_

He jumped when Brena's hand, almost painfully warm, landed on his arm. She passed him a box of takeout – while he'd been lost in thought, she'd gone out to the nurses' station, picked up the bag, and come back. "Here. I'm sorry I was...too much, last night. I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression, and it was sweet of you to try to spare me the embarrassment this morning. Thank you for...well, for not doing anything. Last night, I mean."

 _'There. There it is, Nemeth. She's glad you didn't make a move on her. Now, leave her alone.'_ "You were fine, Bren. Really, you just sat by me, and I got a hug goodnight before you went and passed out in the chair by Deaglan's bed." He smiled when he opened the take-out box; the duck looked and smelled amazing, and he could tell the sticky rice was going to be some of the best he'd ever had. "Like...Bren...you've been so good to me, I don't want you to think stuff is weird, now."

"Things just are, Nick."

With that, August slipped into September, with a chill well past autumn and far into winter pervading their room.

* * *

Welcome KEZZ1, nimalim, wrestlingforfun, and startrek1177 - my author's notes as of late have been lacking, and I want to tell you all how glad I am to see you on board!

Mom2, captainbart - glad to see you sticking around for this one, and Bart, more reviews are incoming. Mom2, I've got a fantastically dark one with your (our?) boo in the works, next.

startrek, You're far too kind - sometimes it's the characters you least expect who grab you.

Kezz, thank you for all of the words of encouragement.

Eyeliner, your Ch5 is coming. I promise. I *promise.* I've just been really...blah...lately.

Willow - enough bricks to build a house :) Such dominant reviews! I feel like I need a Tylenol.

Emilee - You always amaze me with how clever your reviews are, and how many small things you catch when you read. I *love* having you reading!

Nattie, thank you for you review. I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, so I'm thrilled you took the time out to read.

More to come! Hopefully I didn't miss anyone? If you're out there lurking, feel free to drop me a review. Even if it just says "Dawlf iz layme-o!" At least I know I'm getting a reaction from my audience. :)


	19. Sometimes You Get What You Need

I know, I know - 19 days between updates. I suck. 

* * *

"Smile, Uncle D! Happy birthday! I went home just long enough to make your favorite – Hazel's Irish crème chocolate cake." Brena was smiling broadly while she sliced the cake into large wedges, placing three of them on plates. She waited for Meredith to make her way over from the nurses' station before she unwrapped the plasticware, putting forks on each plate and nudging one over to Meredith before breaking off a large bite of the cake and angling in toward Deaglan. Meredith reached over to Brena's phone and paged through its screens, finding the camera app and setting up to take pictures of the small celebration.

In addition to the cake, Brena brought in a giant bunch of balloons, a mash of kelly green and the colors of his favorite cail teams from Kerry and Donegal. Brena's lineage – something Deaglan had taken great care to explain to her several times – pointed to relatives in both counties, though how and why they'd ended up so far apart from each other was a convoluted story rooted in politics and faith. _'Uncle D said fences – or distance – make for good neighbors. And kin.'_ She smiled, recollecting Deaglan's meandering explanation about how the family had split and moved about. Hazel had a similar story about her relatives and how they'd moved throughout England, but she and Deaglan always ended the same – meeting at a block mixer in Deaglan's neighborhood that Hazel had been dragged to by her well-meaning friends, Deaglan catching hell from his own friends for Hazel's being English and not from the neighborhood, and promptly deciding those were flaws that could be overlooked in light of the fact she had beautiful legs and was drinking her whiskey properly.

Of course, Deaglan had other ideas about taking the bite of cake, and ducked his head toward it as though he wanted to smell the dark chocolate and thick, sugary, butter-rich frosting. He dropped his head faster than Brena expected, and came up with a dollop of frosting on his nose for his effort. Brena did earn a smile from him, despite the mishap, and Deaglan tried lifting a hand up to his nose to point at the fluffy chocolate topping. The gesture was enough to bring Brena almost to tears – it was a gift for her, rather than one she'd gotten for him – and she had to cuff herself across the eyes with her shirtsleeve several times to keep from misting over.

"He's really trying, today, Bren. It's great to see the spark back in him." Meredith, holding Brena's phone, beamed at them both while snapping away. "You're going to have a ton of photos. That little point he just did toward the frosting was hilarious – you're going to love it when you see it."

* * *

The spark Meredith was referring to was the light that seemed to go out of Deaglan in the few weeks that had passed since Nick and Brena's friendship had cooled. He ate, slept, went on outings with Brena – all the things he was supposed to do and was used to doing – but did them almost robotically, without displaying any outward enjoyment. When he was in the room, he'd tilt himself to stare at Nick's bed, or simply track him around the room with his eyes – always ending with a heavy sigh when Nick left. Brena knew what the problem was; it seemed half the hospital knew. More than a few specialists and doctors had dropped by their room, ostensibly to check on Deaglan, but the conversations always turned the same – the staff ended up asking Brena what was going on with Nick. While Deaglan went to every appointment and test as scheduled, Nick continued to avoid therapy, was surly toward the people who worked with him, and more than a few times skipped in-house appointments entirely. Brena never gave up any information or pointed to their combined hesitance as the source of the trouble, and never came up with any solution.

Deaglan made it quietly through half the slice of cake before he turned toward Nick's bed and pushed the plate away. Keeping after him with the fork, Brena tried again and again to get her uncle to finish the dessert, but to no avail. Meredith shrugged, crumbs spewing from her mouth.

"Maybe he wants _you_ to eat? Doesn't take a rocket scientist to see you cut a piece for yourself but you didn't touch it yet."

"Well...sort of. I was hoping Nick would stop in, but...it looks like he's..." Brena trailed off, not sure how to end the sentence safely.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. You two are _avoiding_ each other, and it's pissing everyone off. Me included."

"Meredith, then _you_ go chase after him!" Frustrations boiling over, Brena was much shorter and sharper than she meant to be. "I don't know what he wants me to do, and I'll be hung before I waste another minute on it. I'm no mind reader." Snatching the remaining plate of cake off of Deaglan's overbed table, Brena stabbed a fork into it and broke off a ridiculously large chunk, stuffing it into her mouth to prevent anything else foolish from flying out.

"Okay, okay! Jesus! I'll leave it alone." Meredith tossed Brena's phone, now laden with photos of Deaglan, onto the foot of the bed. "Sorry I said anything, Bren. Fuckin' hell." She disappeared back out to the nurses' station, plate in hand. Brena choked down her bite of cake and turned to look at Deaglan, who was on the drowsy edge of a nap.

"Well, that went splendidly, didn't it Uncle D? Meredith is annoyed...and, well...she's just annoyed. Happy birthday." Glumly, Brena slid the cake around and around the plate, her mood going from restless to edgy. After giving up on finding any answers in the crumbs, she placed the cake on the bedside table and reached for her phone, opening the gallery and flicking past the pictures from her past adventures with Deaglan. Brena's mind wandered back to the questions Nick had asked, the interest he'd shown in her small slice of Philadelphia, and then she promptly dimmed the screen. "I think I understand what you're getting at, Uncle D. Why you're irked with me, I mean. How about...how about I split the cake?"

Placing a gentle kiss on Deaglan's cheek, Brena promised to be back right after his nap. _'I need a walk. I need the PT room. I need something, and if it's what I think I need, I most assuredly do not actually need it.'_ Taking the plate of cake with her, she slipped form the room, walking aimlessly down the hall away from Meredith's prying eyes and Deaglan's sleepy growling. She circled the building, floor by floor, nearly room by room, but couldn't find Nick anywhere. She'd gone as far as to look in storage rooms and broom closets, but wasn't able to find Nick – or anyone who'd admit to having seen him. The PT room was dark by the time she made her way back to it, and Brena dropped heavily to the floor, against the wall of mirrors lining the room.

"Wonderful," Brena muttered, "Fantastic. I've managed to run round all the floors of the hospital clutching a piece of cake like it's a teddy bear, and haven't found the one person in the whole building who isn't allowed to _leave_ the building." She began poking the piece of cake around the plate again, lost in thought.

* * *

Silently and also from the floor, Nick watched Brena lump the cake back and forth across the plate. _'It sounds like she's lookin' for me, but what the fuck would she need to – oh – oh shit – it's Deaglan's birthday. Shit! I missed it. I mean, she didn't invite me to, like, hang around, but it woulda been nice to-'_

Brena thumped the plate heavily on the floor, the sharp sound of the ceramic causing Nick to flinch and bang his elbow into the edge of the bench he was seated next to. He hoped she wouldn't notice the sound, tried to hold himself perfectly still, but it wasn't any use. Brena's head snapped toward him, and she was next to him a fraction of a second later, the cake entirely forgotten.

"Tell me you didn't fall again. You didn't, right? You haven't been on the floor here all afternoon, have you? Here, let me call Dr. Morgan, he can-"

"Sit down, Bren. I'm fine." Nick bunched his legs up in front of him, trying to make room for her on the floor. "I'm...thinking, I guess. Just without cake."

Brena looked over her shoulder at the forgotten dessert, and scooted back across the floor to fetch it. "As long as you're sure. You haven't told me if you actually fell or not." She held the plate balanced atop her knees, trying not to crowd him but hoping it looked like an offer all the same. Nick remained silent, looking at her and somehow, at nothing at all. _'This is making me nervous. Something's really off, here. What's he not telling me?'_

"I'm fine." _'And you told her that already, too. Try a conversation, Nemeth, before she dumps the cake on your head for being an idiot.'_ "I mean, uh...no. No, I didn't fall. Really, just...thinking. Trying to think, anyway."

"And I'm in the way of that. Here – take this. I was looking for you – well, Deaglan was looking for you – I mean, we both were. Oh, here! Just have this!" Brena tried passing the plate to Nick, who tried reaching for it as rapidly as she offered it, resulting in him banging into her knuckles and knocking them back into the cake, covering the back of her hand in frosting. Groaning, Nick slowed himself, took the plate from her and set it to the side, and then held Brena's hand up by the wrist, both of them looking at the mess he'd made.

"That went well," Nick grumbled at himself, scanning the room for a towel he could offer to Brena, "I wonder if there's anything _else_ I can fuck up while I'm here." He started to stand up, but Brena grabbed him with the one of her two hands that wasn't currently coated in chocolate.

"What do you mean?" Brena tugged at Nick, trying to get him to sit down. "Here, take the fork. I don't want to touch anything, I'll get this everywhere. And you may as well forget the towels, laundry's gone for the day." She started trying to lick the frosting from her fingers, a wan smile crossing her face as she did. "Hazel would approve, I think. This almost tastes right."

Cautiously, Nick sat down across from Brena and leaned heavily into the wall. Cross-legged and in front of him, focused intently on her fingers, Brena would have been comical if she weren't so sticky. Her expression was thoughtful, and it was clear she was mentally dissecting each nuance of flavor in the frosting. Sinking the fork into the cake, Nick broke off a ridiculously large bite for himself and smiled around it as he chewed.

"Well, now I know for sure." Brena was smiling, an expression Nick hadn't seen on her face nearly often enough in the weeks that had passed since their cold war began.

"Mow muf?" He swallowed, hard, and wished he had a cup of her coffee. "I mean, know what? The cake is amazing, Bren. Did it come from that bakery?"

"No, mo trodaire. Baked it myself. I've been...oh, I don't know. I don't want to say busy, but...desperate. Trying to come up with things for Deaglan. He's been so out of sorts lately." Brena shrugged, and licked at her fingers again. "It's probably just the-"

"It's because we're fucked up, Bren." Nick broke off another bite of cake, then passed the fork to her. "Here. Try it. I know you, you didn't have shit to eat all day. Don't tell me I'm wrong, either." _'You called me your...thingie. Whatever word it was. I can't remember it and you just told me, too. But...you still said it. That's a good thing.'_

Brena startled, then reached for the fork before the cake fell from it. "What do you mean, about us?"

"Oh, come on, Bren. We barely say two words to each other anymore. Meredith noticed. Dr. Morgan noticed. Half the hospital noticed. And you _know_ Deaglan noticed. I'm not gonna sit here and say that I'm so important that the sun rises and sets on my ass, but he...like...fuck, Bren, you know I don't know how to say it right."

"Nick, I don't know _what_ I know, anymore." She broke off a forkful of cake and tried to pass it to him, but he was mentally out in the ether, not seeing what she was offering him. Sniffling out a laugh, she poked him with her foot, leaned forward, and touched the cake to his lips. "And here I thought you were _recovering_ from the head injury. Open your mouth."

Slowly, uncertainty evident in the motion, Nick parted his lips just enough to account for the height of the frosting piled on top of the cake, and let Brena slip it into his mouth. He was happy to have a moment to keep his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself; Nick wanted to ask a thousand questions, wanted to mash the rest of the cake into her face, wanted to take her back up to the roof to look at what was left of the fall leaves in the city, and wanted to leave the room before he did anything foolish. He took the fork from her and looked at it carefully, not sure what he was looking for but positive there would be some sort of clue to something on its handle.

"We...this," Nick started and stopped, fishing for words, "This is nice, Bren."

"The cake? I'm glad you like it." She started to rise from the floor, but Nick grabbed her hand, not noticing or caring that he'd connected with the one that was sticky.

"Stay? Please? We don't really talk anymore, and you...you said...I mean, you called me-"

"Of course, mo trodaire," Brena smiled, and spun so she was next to him against the wall. "I...I miss this."

"Miss what?" He'd let go of her hand, but was strangely happy that his palm was sticky from holding hers.

"The way we talked to each other, Nick. The way...well...the way you were there. I probably put too much on you, really, but we were always able to just...chat. It was lovely. I wish you were there for the cake with Deaglan, but – oh! Wait, here!" Brena fished for her phone, cuing up the photographs Meredith took mid-celebration. "This! Mer took a bunch of pictures and I didn't look at them yet. I was...uh...well, I was saving them. Maybe we could-"

Nick snapped her phone from her hand and skimmed through to where Deaglan and the cake began to feature – then backed up a bit further, seeing the cake sitting on a counter in what he hoped was Brena's kitchen at home. "Took a few pictures before you got here?"

"I hate to admit to the ego, but yes. It's on one of Hazel's cake-plates; it looked so pretty on the counter and reminded me so much of her that I wanted just one picture that wasn't...wasn't..."

"Wasn't in the hospital?" Nick broke off another bite of cake and offered it to her. "I get what you mean. It's nice to think of home being...at home. Plus, your kitchen is kinda cool." The cake sat next to a double-sink – a farmer's model, deep basin, and the porcelain was shockingly white. The countertop was stone of some sort – not marble, he knew that would be too new – but something warmly rose-and-tan colored, and the cobalt blue of the cake plate was vibrant against it. In the back of the frame was the biggest, oldest stove-and-double-oven he'd ever laid eyes on, also cobalt in color, and covered in knobs, dials, and handles he knew he'd need a guidebook to understand.

"Well...yes. Wasn't in the hospital. Plus, I'll admit – it's always fun to use the Wedgwood. Antique or not, it bakes like a dream, once you've got the heat settings down pat." Brena reached across Nick and flipped forward through the pictures, explaining the colors of the balloons and promising him a lesson on Irish geography. Stopping at the first image of Deaglan she came to, she couldn't help but giggle and then outright laugh. Meredith was right; the small point toward the frosting on his nose and amused lift of his eyebrows was sweetly, purely, completely his personality. Nick smiled, happy to see her happy, and then elbowed her gently.

"It's not fair, you know."

"What's that, Nick?" Brena, still laughing, sounded vaguely concerned and confused. "Is something wrong?"

"Well...yeah. See, you got to dip _him_ in the nose with the cake," Nick moved the plate of cake to his side, using the fork to deftly scoop a decently-sized piece into his palm, "But I didn't get to-"

Brena had already started a backlong scramble away from Nick, his idea written all over his face. He'd decided he could indulge at least one of his impulses from earlier in their conversation, and given that he trumped her in size, speed, and reach, knew he'd have no problem mashing her in the face with the cake. Allowing her the illusion of escape, he waited a second or two before lunging, tossing her phone safely away from them both.

"No! No, no, no, wait, that's not fair! Nick, I don't-"

With that, Brena was silenced by a half-mouthful of chocolate, the parts not landing in her mouth smeared solidly across the side of her face and well into her hair, her laughter wild and all-consuming. He'd knocked her backwards along the wall and was laughing as hard as she was, holding himself up over her, shaking his hand downward to ensure every possible splat of frosting landed on her.

"Oh, you terrible git!" Brena could barely form words around her laughter and kept bringing her hands up to her face, debating whether or not to try to wipe away what he'd put there. She could see the rest of the cake was too far away to do her any good, so she opted to drag as much frosting from her face as she could, with the intent of plastering Nick. "It's in my _hair_ , Nick, what am I going to-" Aiming for a stealthy attack, she cut herself off mid-sentence and cupped her hand up against his face, painting him equally thoroughly with frosting and cake-crumbs.

Consciously or subconsciously, Nick had blocked Brena in against the wall of mirrors before decking her with the frosting and cake; she'd pushed her hands up against him when she retaliated with her own dessert-based salvo, but hadn't budged him. He was careful to keep his legs to her side and his weight off of her, but she had no chance of sitting up. Laying over her, he gingerly plucked sticky, frosting-laden strands of hair from her face while her laughter slowed to a warm chuckle. Gently, Brena caught Nick's hand in her own, the butter in the crème frosting becoming slick between their palms from the heat.

"We're even, Nick," Brena breathed, "And...maybe we're even..back to like it was before?"

"Just promise me you're not gonna freak out about us laying on the floor together, okay?" _'Oh, that was_ so _fucking slick, Nemeth. Great job.'_ "I mean, like, we're just screwing around. It's cake...right?"

Brena looked thoughtful for a second, shifting her eyes slightly to their hands, still glued together by frosting. "I'd say it's been quite the birthday." She smiled up at Nick, slipping her hand from his grasp. "And, as you said, it's just cake. Well, and one other thing." Brena stabbed her thumbs into his ribs, jolting him upright as much from the impact as from the wicked tickling sensation. Pushing forward as Nick threw himself back, Brena ended up sitting over his hips, pressing her hands down into the fronts of his shoulders in an attempt both tremendously feeble and playful, to pin him. "It's half a terrible wrestling lesson!" Brena sounded thoroughly pleased with herself, and Nick was content to let her win.

"Bren, what do you do in here?" Nick, still smeared with chocolate, was quiet when he spoke.

"Oh, this? Nothing, really, mo trodaire." Brena's gluey hair had fallen back over her face as she moved her hands enough to brush Nick's equally chocolate-laden hair from his eyes. "I dance, that's all. Well, I try. Can't say as it's successful; you know the story about my shoulders."

Eyes half-closed, enjoying Brena's scant weight over him and warm fingers against his face, Nick let his mind and mouth wander. "Bren, it's probably beautiful and you just don't know it. You gotta quit with that shit, that...you know...all that shit about how you can't do things." He felt the tip of one finger trace a small pattern on his cheek, followed by a small huff before she switched sides and drew another small pattern. Nick had no idea what either could be, but was content to lay on the gritty floor in the PT room as long as her heat and now chocolate-and-ginger scent permeated the air.

"You're a sap, Nick. A lovely, wonderful sap. Even at my best, I don't know that I did anything beautiful. It was technically sound, I was skilled, but-"

"Bren, you're doing it again." Nick pulled her hands from his hair, momentarily regretted the decision, then pressed them to his chest. She followed his motion, leaning just low enough that he pressed his eyes shut entirely, pressing down the impulse to complete the motion, pull her down, and kiss her. "Just, like, take the compliment."

"Fine, fine." Brena tensed her fingers around his, her knuckles tiny points of rounded pressure against his chest. "You win this round, Nick. Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"Could I...like...could I maybe watch you, sometime?"

Brena flinched back, away from Nick, and he held her hands firmly, determined to keep her from avoiding the conversation yet again. Too many times, Nick had brought up Brena's likes, interests, nuances – all the personal things she'd shared with him, but seemingly expected him to forget as soon as she'd said them – and then been shut down mid-effort for trying to be interested in her life. This time, however, being so close to her, being so close to back to normal with her, and being so close to the normalcy he was finally willing to admit he wanted and might even be able to obtain, he wasn't willing to let her go so easily.

"Seriously, Bren, I bet you're amazing and you just-"

"It's fine, Nick. I'll make sure I have you with me."

* * *

They weren't able to find a single towel in the PT room before they left, as ended up walking through the hallways back to Deaglan's room still covered in chocolate and crumbs of cake. Their laughter was quiet the entire way, and more than once Nick pulled Brena into his shoulder, under his arm, and then had to argue himself out of leaning down to kiss the top of her head. She, in turn fought the same battle of wills with herself; each time he pulled her in she warred against tipping her head up to kiss him. Both thought it wasn't what the other needed; both were completely wrong.

They were back in Deaglan's room just as dinner was being delivered; the kitchen had prepared corned beef and traditional sides specially for him on his birthday, and an aide had opened the tray as Brena and Nick arrived. Deaglan, waiting patiently, was alternating between staring at his meal and staring at the leftover cake, still displayed on his bedside table. His eyes followed the aide as she left, and then lit on Brena and Nick together, laughing as they entered the room arm in arm. A happy roar came from Deaglan, who clapped his hands and then banged them against his overbed table.

"Jesus – Bren, are we that late?" Nick, having wandered into his bathroom, was tracing his fingertips through the patterns of frosting on his cheeks – small, darkly chocolate stars – while he shouted out to Brena. "He sounds like he's starving."

"No, mo trodaire," Brena called back, "He's happy." ' _And I'll allow it for myself, today – so am I. Happy birthday, Uncle D. Thank you for the gift.'_


	20. Costume Party

I'll add thankyous and whatnot when im not posting from my phone...

I'm not posting from my phone! Thank you to all of my reviewers, including KEZZ, Mom2, WillowEdmond, Eyeliner, startrekfan, emileeJ, captainbart, (I'm sure I've missed people, but THANK YOU!) and EVERYONE who's stopped in to read or view or just gag a little bit and wonder why I'm still at it.

Biiiiiiiiiiiiiig thankyous to WillowEdmond, who was the nail polish remover to my KrazyGlue! The dialogue you see between Nick and Brena is the result of a hilarious and necessary unsticking-session in which you almost got to see me quote Peter Frampton lyrics. Really, though, you see the Nick-and-Brena interaction that you do because of her motivation and help.

Also, if you haven't, check out her stories! Along with captainbartholomew, EyexLinerxWhore, nattiebroskette, AWrestlingGod, and AliceJericho. Among others. You won't be disappointed!

* * *

More often than not, Brena's cell phone sat quietly, collecting dust, on Deaglan's bedside table. She always took it with her when she went out with Deaglan, in case of emergency or to take photos, but other than that it was brick-like and still, waiting to be used. Thus, it was to everyone's surprise when Brena's cell phone rang, and loudly at that, startling Deaglan into an irritated growl.

"Well, that's odd. I was convinced I'd shut the ringer off on the silly thing." Brena put down the book she'd been reading to Nick and Deaglan, and reached awkwardly behind her for her phone, earning an audible creak from her shoulder for her effort. Nick winced, but said nothing – he'd only recently gotten an open invitation to the PT room and didn't want to lose it by voicing concern about Brena's injury. For a split second, Brena's face registered surprise at the screen, then mild concern. Tepidly, she tapped at the glass, picking up the call and standing from her chair.

"Alison! Hello! My goodness, it's been forever since we've talked. How are you? Is everything okay?"

"Well hello to you too, Brena! Things are _great_ for me, you have no idea. I'm gonna be on your side of town in a couple of hours, and I was thinking we should go get a cup of coffee."

"I'd love to, Alison, but I don't have anyone to watch Deaglan." Brena's face was pure dejection, and Nick started to wave his hands, trying to get Brena's attention and show her he'd sit with Deaglan while she went out.

"Oh, that," Alison continued, "Well, actually, that'll work. I'll grab us some Starbucks and drop by. I've got some stuff for you to read, anyway."

"You know, there's this lovely coffee shop, a local thing, where you might get a better latte than if you go to-"

"See you in a couple hours! Hope you're still in the same room!" Alison cut the call and left Brena staring at her phone.

"Poor girl. Starbucks doesn't even _taste_ like coffee compared to McCaffrey's, but I can't complain. She's paying." Brena shrugged and pocketed her phone.

"She didn't have to cut you off mid-sentence, either," Nick groused, "Who was that?"

"Oh, it's just Alison's personality. She doesn't mean any harm by it. We went to university together and if memory serves me, we took quite a few lyrical composition courses together. Her interest was more toward the production aspect of things; she danced, but her heart wasn't in it. Alison would always rather have been the one putting the structure of the program together behind the scenes, than out on the stage herself."

Nick looked as though Brena was speaking Greek; the idea of not being on a stage was completely foreign to him, and Brena couldn't suppress her laughter. It took her only a fraction of a second to understand why Nick looked so confused – to him, audiences and performances were the whole point of being involved in producing anything, dance or otherwise. Looking up at the wall-clock, he groaned and swung his feet from his bed. He'd started seeing the therapist again, though he was having the damnedest time explaining why, no, he wasn't afraid of getting back in the ring, but was terrified of an honest conversation with his roommate's daughter. Nick would be late if he didn't start walking, so he produced a pair of shoes from under his bed and set off down the hallway after saying goodbye to both Brena and Deaglan.

* * *

An hour later, Nick still unable to explain anything about Brena or his muddled thoughts to the therapist, he wandered down toward the main lobby, not sure if Brena's friend had arrived or not. He didn't want to be in the way, much as Brena hadn't wanted to interfere in his visit with Claudio, and wasn't sure if it was a good time to go back to the room or not. As he shuffled through the magazines in the lobby and looked longingly out the front doors, a woman breezed past him on the way in, yammering loudly into a cell phone as she moved.

"Yeah, relax, I'm only gonna be here for an hour, tops." The woman placed two cups of coffee down on an end table in the lobby, adjusting her handbag over her arm, "Then, I'm out. I can't handle this, it's depressing. I brought her a coffee, and some stuff to read about Alzheimer's. Maybe it'll give her a better idea of what to do with him, God knows she's floundering here all by herself. It's the latest research all made into hands-on things; maybe she'll understand some of it. Or she can give it to his doctors. It's not like he's getting _better_ here; by all accounts he's just...well, I dunno. He's around, but he's not functional."

A booming laugh came through the back of the phone, and the woman began to paw through her bag, coming up with a vibrant lipstick and leaning dangerously over the two cups of coffee to reapply it using the reflection on the window. Nick couldn't make out what the voice was saying, but the depth of its tone made him believe she was talking to a man. The woman rolled her eyes and continued speaking.

"Look, really. I _won't_ be here that long. We were friends and all that, but I don't see her much anymore. I don't get why she's doing all this, she doesn't really explain it...like...there's just not much in common. I feel obligated to see her, and you _know_ how I feel about obligation."

Nick felt his shoulders tighten; he was almost positive this was Brena's friend Alison. The coffee fit, at any rate, and the bits of conversation he picked up on sounded like the things Brena said earlier.

"...Anyway, I'm just gonna drop off the stuff I printed, and get out of here. It's a hospital. Eesh, you know? Everyone's dying, or at least really screwed up. I'll see you in time for cocktails." The woman tapped the screen and capped her lipstick, tossing it back into her bag. She bobbled the coffee cups between her hands, trying to organize them around her packets and printouts, and then scanned the waiting area as though she was looking for someone to help her. Eyes landing on Dolph, he cringed, but forced a smile to his face.

"Oh my God! Don't I know you? I think I know you!" The woman bounced on her toes, coffee splashing out of the lids of the cups. "You...you're _him_! That...that guy from the…oh, I _swear_ I've seen you before somewhere!"

"Yeah, maybe," Nick tried to remain neutral. "Did you, uh, need help with those?" _'You're a real piece of work, lady. And now I want to see if you're headed to Deaglan's room or not.'_

"Oh, would you? That'd be just _great_. Now, where do I know you from?" She shoved the coffee at Nick. "I'd never forget a face like yours. It'd just be, like, _impossible_. You're just here, like, visiting, right? I know that I know you from somewhere."

"Er, not exactly. Well, sort-of. Where did you say you were headed with the coffee?" _'Please, be anywhere but Deag-'_

"Oh, just here to see Brena. Well, not that you'd know her, but she's here _all_ the time. Practically lives here, how unhealthy is _that_?" Nick forced another smile as the woman he now knew was Alison banged through Deaglan's door. "And here I am, Bren!" Her voice was nearly a screech, and Deaglan startled as she entered. Alison snatched the cups of coffee from Nick's hands and kicked the door shut behind her.

Confused, Nick wandered to the nurses' station, looking for Meredith. She just shook her head and threw her hands in the air. "Blondie...Bren's told you about her friends. They wander in, they wander out. _That_ one, though," Meredith gestured at the door, "Alison _Elizabeth_ Coley. Well...she could've _kept_ wandering. Far, far away."

"So...should I-"

"Nah, Blondie. Just leave it alone." Meredith buried herself in a chart, not wanting Nick to see the knowing look on her face. She knew full well that Alison had set Nick on edge; what remained to be seen was whether or not he'd fall.

* * *

Later, running out of places to go, Nick headed back to his room. He'd read a magazine in the lobby, but was tired of the vague looks of recognition from the people coming and going as they visited relatives. He'd done balance drills and stretches in the PT room, but found himself wondering more and more about Brena and dance – and the dance he was doing with her. It was confusing yet exhilarating; Nick hadn't ever had to work at a relationship, or at earning the affections of a woman, largely because he'd never wanted a relationship and most women were only too happy to shower him with the sort of meaningless attention that led to a night of sticky sheets and fake phone numbers. Brena, though – Brena was different. He was still unable to put into words what it was, but he absolutely knew what it wasn't. It wasn't a disposable, shallow, one-off _thing_ , for him, not anymore. Where he'd once held simmering resentment about her intrusive behavior and complete bewilderment about her demeanor, Nick now felt a depth of warmth and affection that he didn't know he was capable of and had no idea if it was reciprocated by the waif-like woman who nearly lived in his hospital room with her uncle. Now, outside his room, Alison's voice shrilled through the door well before Nick opened it, with Meredith staring daggers at the sound.

"Brena, you're gonna _love_ what I came up with for you! Just _love_ it! I know you and Deaglan don't get out much, I mean, just look at your _hair_ , girl, you need to get it cut like whoa! Plus, well, he's – well, look at him! He's wasting away! I found this great therapeutic craft section on Pinterest while I was looking for dinner party ideas, and I bet you he could still do some of these things, if you'd just go out and get the supplies. It's supposed to stimulate the _lymbic_ system, would you believe it? It's all based on the latest research. Really, these are the kinds of things that _should_ be done with Deaglan."

Shoving packets and files at Brena, Alison slurped at her coffee and checked her phone, sending out a quick text. "And just when _was_ the last haircut you had, hm? I know this is Philly and not L.A., but you can't just quit _trying_ , you know. You're _my_ age and you're _single_. Have I told you about James?" Thankfully, Alison's phone chose that moment to ring, and she vaulted from her chair, barging past Nick as he came in the room. "I'll be right back, just lemme answer my," Taking notice of Nick, she paused, swallowed hard, and leaned into the doorframe, plastering a look that was somewhere between smoldering and sauced on her face, "My, uh...my _friend_. And hello there, you! I didn't realize we'd be running in to each other so much today. I swear, I _know_ you from-"

"You _don't_ know me. Sorry." Nick was brusque as he eased past her, not interested in a conversation.

"Oh my _gaw_ , you're _him_! I knew I knew you! You're that guy with the hip swivel thing, from wrestling! My boyfr – I mean, my _friend_ watches you _all_ the time. Hang on, lemme take this call, and then I totally want a picture with you! What's your name? It's Dolph Something Or Other, right?" Alison fairly flew out the door, handbag in tow, stabbing at her phone and leaving her Starbucks cup on Nick's bedside table. It had left a ring of drippy chocolate and who knew what else underneath it; Nick nearly snarled at it. He knew Brena cleaned the room compulsively, his half included, and the mess irritated him on her behalf.

Nick turned to Brena, trying to work the expression on his face down into something less irritated. "Now you see what I was trying to avoid." _'And your hair looks fine, I don't know what the fuck that was about.'_

Brena looked horrified. "Nick, I'm _so_ sorry. I can't apologize enough, really. Alison is starstruck, I'm sure – she knows more about these things than I do, pop culture and all, and she's excited. I'll tell her to leave you alone. Really, I'm just so...I'm so _sorry._ " She searched for a place to deposit her stack of printouts, passing the paper from one hand to the other, but Nick took them from her before she could find a surface to put them on. Suddenly, Brena's knees seemed to become the most interesting thing in the room; she couldn't take her eyes off of them, and shame was written across her face.

"What's all this shit?" Irritation had saturated his voice and spilled over; he'd heard just enough of Alison's spiel about therapeutic crafts, Brena's haircut, and Deaglan's decline to know that he absolutely didn't like the woman.

"She...she brought projects for me. Well, for Deaglan. I'm supposed to get supplies and then do the crafts with him. Something about the...the most...the research. Modern research. Alison said he looks like...like he's on the decline." Brena's voice caught, and she reached out for the papers, though Nick backed away with them. "There's...uh...there's recipes in there, too. Things I should cook for him. Something about macronutrients and improved brain processes, and-"

Nick threw the papers in a heap on his bed without saying a word to Brena and stalked out of the room, looking for Alison in the hallway. He didn't have to go far to find her; she was leaning against the counter at the nurses' station, her voice blaring into her phone. Meredith had turned away from her, her back facing Brena and Deaglan's room, but the solid slam of the door brought her to look over her shoulder. She stuffed down a snicker, turned back, and pretended to be intensely focused on her computer screen, though she was watching Nick's reflection in the glass of the CRT monitor. Alison was still consumed by her phone conversation, unaware of the bomb about to detonate in front of her.

"Yeah, ohmigaw, I just visited Brena, or whatever – you remember we had Lyrical 101, right? No, not Brennan...not Brenda... _Brena._ Jesus, you don't listen when I talk! It's a good thing you're good in bed. But, yeah, fuckin' shoot me if I ever get like that. Well, if I ever get like her uncle got. Thank _God_ she doesn't have kids, can you imagine what she'd pass on? But, get this! I think her uncle's roommate is a _celebrity_. You know that wrestler guy who's out with a head injury? I think he's _here_! Yeah, dumbass, of _course_ I'm gonna get a picture. I'm just telling you because I might be late for cocktails. We're still meeting, right?"

Nick walked up to Alison and smiled – to Meredith, it was chilling, and Brena would likely have asked him what was wrong – but Alison thought the expression was one of interest and enthusiasm, and ended her conversation abruptly.

"Hey! I was just talking about you! It's Dolph, right? Or should I call you something else? I _totally_ want to get a picture with you, my friends are _not_ gonna believe I met you! And in _this_ place, too! How random!" Alison was vibrating with energy, reaching out for his hands as though she had to touch Nick to know he was real and she wasn't dreaming.

"You know what? C'mere for a minute." Pure ice, Nick's voice was low and menacing, but Alison floated after him back into Brena and Deaglan's room as though it was an invitation to dinner and his bed. Inside, Brena still sat on the edge of Deaglan's bed, her head hung low. Deaglan stared blankly ahead, as though something in him had shut off. Nick left the door open behind him, hoping Alison would make use of it.

"I can sit on your bed, if you want. For the picture, I mean!" Alison giggled, and started to toggle through options on her phone as she walked, unaware that Nick had moved ahead of her, picked up all of the papers and packets from his bed, and arranged them into a stack in his hands. He turned to face her, his face suddenly ugly with rage. It was above and beyond anything Brena had seen him display, even when he'd first arrived, and she reached back for Deaglan's hand.

"You printed all this out?"

Alison stopped mid-toggle and looked up quizzically at Nick. "Oh, that stuff? Yeah, for Brena. Things she can do to stimulate Deaglan, keep his mind sharp, feed him the right way – you know, all the things she should be doing anyway."

"So if I ask you where the fuck you were when Brena couldn't even get home to take a shower or do Deaglan's laundry, you're gonna tell me you were making them a quinoa casserole? You booked her a haircut once a month so she could have 20 minutes to herself, where she didn't have to put everything into taking care of him, didn't you? Or, wait, I know – you were you driving through the city looking for just the right clay for Deaglan to make a fuckin' flower pot with, right? This is bullshit!" Nick threw the first few packets and sheets of paper at Alison, causing her to jump back.

"But, like, you're a fuckin' Alzheimer's _expert_ , am I right?" Nick continued, stepping forward, selecting more papers and holding them up like they were dead rats. "I mean, _look_ at what _you_ found! Kale and apricot salad! _That's_ gonna fix him for sure, right? Because the fuckin' _doctors_ here don't know what they're doing." He threw the papers at Alison, backing her further up to the doorway. "Because the woman who devoted her entire fucking _life_ to him doesn't know what she's doing? Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

"Brena, what the _fuck_ is with him?" Alison clung to the door frame, handbag draped over her arm, debating whether to run back to Brena and hide behind her, or simply run from the room. "Is he, like, fucked up?"

"You'd think I was fuckin' _disgusting_ if I was!" Nick lunged forward, and Alison abandoned the doorframe in favor of the hallway, hoping that a wider audience might get him to quiet down – or give her a chance to escape his tirade. Brena hadn't turned to help her, and Nick showed no signs of slowing. "I heard what you said in the hallway! That if you ever ended up like Deaglan, someone should just – what'd you say, just _shoot_ you? You know what, if you ended up like Deaglan, you'd be _loved_. You'd have a _family._ You'd be the luckiest fucker in the world, because you'd have someone there with you, every day, _all_ day, to take care of you!" Nick crushed more papers in his fist, throwing them at Alison again. "But no, not _you_. You're too busy buying shitty coffee and putting on ugly lipstick to understand what Brena's going through – what she's doing for him. Maybe _you_ need the fuckin' kale salad!"

"Oh my God, you really _are_ an asshole!" Alison spat back at Nick, tired of his tirade. She shifted down the hallway, but he followed her. "Go the fuck back in your room, you nutjob. Brena! Brena, I'm leaving."

"Good, you shallow fuckin' idiot, _go_. She doesn't need friends like you. You, and your bright fuckin' ideas. Here's an idea for you – when she needed you, you coulda _been_ there for her. You coulda _helped._ When you _really_ love someone, when you really put in the work the way she has, _then_ you can talk. Until then, move the fuck on, and don't you _dare_ think you can walk in here and tell her she's doin' it all wrong!" Nick hurled the rest of the papers at Alison's face, though they missed wildly and scattered across the floor, crinkling and scuffing as they landed.

Alison stomped off, huffing to herself as she went down the hallway, and Nick turned to go back in the room, muttering about quinoa and shitty coffee. Meredith crept out from behind the desk and picked up the papers Nick had thrown down the hall; even she couldn't believe Alison's idiocy. The pile of mangled paper contained step-by-step guides to craft projects that were 'guaranteed' to stimulate memory retrieval; recipes to cook meals that no person in their right mind would touch, let alone someone who was neurologically challenged – even articles about the benefits of coconut oil and ear candling were in the mix. Rolling her eyes, she set the papers down at the desk, determined to talk to Dr. Morgan at the first available opportunity. Meredith knew Brena well enough to understand that while she wouldn't believe there was any merit in the ideas themselves, there might be merit to the idea that she wasn't doing enough to care for her uncle.

* * *

Nick closed the door heavily behind him once Alison was gone, realizing for the first time that his hands were shaking from adrenaline. Brena hadn't moved from the edge of Deaglan's bed, and Deaglan still stared blankly ahead. Suddenly unsure he'd reacted appropriately – or that his reaction was even wanted – adrenaline gave way to a queasy stomach, and Nick lunged for the pitcher of water by his bed, barely able to coordinate his hands to pour. Brena dropped down to her feet and steadied the pitcher and glass, trying to help as much as she could. They stood silently next to each other, Nick watching the water in his glass vibrate and Brena trying to find confidence to put into her voice.

Finally, she spoke. "You're a little early for Halloween, mo trodaire. And I know there's no phone booth here for you to duck into when you change."

"The fuck are you talking about, Bren?"

"You turned into Superman for a minute, Nick." She tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Though, I didn't know Clark Kent was fond of neon pink."

Nick had to puzzle over her comment, and still came up blank, allowing Brena to push him back toward his bed while he mulled over her words. Deaglan seemed to understand her – or at least, her sentiment – and wheezed happily as she moved Nick backwards, sitting him down on his bed.

"Okay, I give up. What'd I do? Superman isn't my schtick, that's Joe's thing. Character, I mean, sorta, the whole combat-vest thing isn't...I mean, at work. When I'm performing, I'm kinda...I'm...like..." Nick slowed to a stop, realizing that his words weren't making sense to Brena.

"I meant Alison. The way you..." Brena faltered, and her hands grasped at the air as though there were words she could pull into her sentence. "Nick, you know me. I always worry I'm not doing enough for Deaglan. And you know...I mean, you said..." Brena took his glass of water from him and sipped at it herself, not sure how to proceed. "You said...things."

"That's bullshit, Bren. What she did, I mean. Like you haven't been bustin' your ass to take care of him."

"No, now, don't put too much on it." Brena's small smile was warm, and Nick knew that as much as she wanted to downplay the amount of care she gave to Deaglan, she was also relieved her efforts had been noticed. "I'm always going to worry that there's something more I should be doing, but I don't think kale is the answer, either."

"Kale isn't the answer to _anything._ " Nick smiled at her, hoping his joke was appreciated, and then continued. "If I'm Superman, does that make you Lois?" Relieved and pleased with himself, he tried to play along with Brena. She'd looked broken, holding the stack of printouts from Alison, and Nick didn't know if he had the means or ability to fix things.

Laughing, Brena set down his glass of water and hopped up into his bed next to him, nudging his ankle as she sat. They looked for all the world like two high schoolers on a park bench, but the moment was comfortable rather than awkward. "No, mo trodaire. Dorothy. That was my favorite costume. Hazel spent weeks gluing red sequins onto a pair of maryjanes for me, and she sewed the dress herself, too. One of my friends from school had a tiny little dog – a Yorkie, I think – and we stuffed her in a basket and brought her with us. My friend went as Glenda the Good Witch. That year, I think we drowned in chocolate bars." The smile on Brena's face was on the line of being wistful, and Nick felt a wave of affection sweep over him. "Your best costume was..."

"Oh, definitely the year I went as a ninja. My little brother just _had_ to go as the same thing, so it maybe wasn't as badass as I thought it was, but the idea of being a sword-waving candy thief was pretty cool."

"I suppose I shouldn't hold my breath about talking you back into the cheerleader costume?"

Nick elbowed Brena, and she clutched at her side. Concerned, Nick started to bend over her, but Brena laughed and shoved him backwards across his bed, his feet flying out and then back down – neither one of them had bothered to lay properly on the bed, and he kicked her in the shins more than once trying to adjust his position across the width of the bed, rather than up the length. "Not much of a ninja, mo trodaire. I believe Dorothy just got one over on you." Reaching up, Nick pulled her down onto the bed alongside him, trying to keep a respectful distance. She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him, and her eyes pinned him in place. "Really, though – it's headed toward six months. You're going to have to put _some_ sort of a costume on again, and soon. Have you given it any thought?"

"I...yeah. I mean, no, not...I mean..." Nick gave up, sighed mightily, and covered his eyes with one arm, pulling Brena down into half a headlock with the other. "Why do you ask me this shit?"

Pinned against his shoulder, his arm heavy around her now that it had dropped from her neck, Brena felt her body tense as she held her breath. She couldn't tell if he was irked with her, playing around, or somewhere in between. Whatever cologne he'd put on was heavy with sandalwood and bergamot, and she didn't realize he was still talking until the deep rumble in his chest shook her out of her stupor. Rather than push away, Brena burrowed in further against him and tried to focus on what he was saying. She'd missed much of what he stammered through at the outset, which was just as well – he hadn't made any sense, and she would have come away with more questions than answers. Not knowing where, exactly, he was in the conversation wasn't helping matters, however, and she had to jump in over him.

"Nick, I'm asking you about your plans because you have to have them." She traced a finger along a fold in his shirt, stopping to tug at a loose thread. "You'll be leaving here in….what, early November? Middle? Right before Thanksgiving, because of when they signed you in, back in May, I think. So...what are _you_ thinking?" As much to distract herself as to comfort him on the off-chance she was needling at him, Brena continued tracing trails across his shirt.

"Honestly?" Nick had to focus on what he was thinking, on making sure his thoughts didn't turn into words or regrettable actions. "I...well, if they clear me...I guess I just kinda assumed I would be going back to work." The words sounded hollow as he said them, and the realizations that followed continued to gut him. In the next few months, Nick would find himself without Brena. She couldn't be in two places at once, and wherever Deaglan was, there she went. There wasn't any way around it – or at least, none Nick could see in the moment – and he realized he didn't want to go.

"You don't sound excited, mo trodaire. There's no happiness in your voice." Brena tucked in closer against Nick, turning onto her side and pulling her legs up onto the bed, working them into a hopeless knot around his. All of the tension from Alison's visit had gone out of her, and she sounded on the edge of a delicious exhaustion. "After all this time, won't you be glad to be rid of this place? It seems to bring you nothing but dramatics and upset – Alison included."

"Well..." Nick forced himself to keep staring at the ceiling, instead of dropping his head down toward hers, "It won't be the same. Work is gonna be different – they sidelined my story arc with CJ, so I have to pick that up and get started, but I mean things here. Er, not here, but..." He trailed off. "Things are gonna change, Bren."

"Of course they will, Nick. It's just what things do." Brena had changed from trailing a single fingertip to several, letting her hand wander in wavering, warm lines across his chest. "If you're not here, it means you're well. You're out doing what you love."

"And I love – I figured out, it took me a while – but I love _this_ , too. The quiet, the thinking, just... _this._ " He chanced a moment of stupidity and reached for Brena's hand, pressing it to his chest and threading his fingers through hers. "It's _so_ busy on the road, and that's just the shit I do for the company. I do a bunch of shit that's _not_ for the company – comedy, acting – so that when I'm too old, when I'm done, I've got something to fall back on. I mean...what I think I mean...I want to go back to that, sure, but I don't want to give _this_ up, either."

Smiling into the side of his chest, Brena gratefully squeezed her hand around his, trying to understand what he meant without letting herself be too hopeful. Nick was warm, his arms were comfortable, and his grip around her hand was calming rather than concerning. "You'll always remember this place, Nick – as much as you can, anyway – and if you're ever in the mood to call or talk, I'm here. You've got my phone number somewhere."

"Brena, it's not gonna be the same." Nick had one leg propped up on the bed, trying to decide if turning lengthwise and stretching out with her would be a good idea or would ruin the moment.

"You've said as much, mo trodaire," Brena smothered her yawn into his side and stretched comfortably, considering whether or not she should keep her legs against him. Opting to stay close, Brena pressed firmly against him before continuing. "And that's fine, isn't it? That things change?"

"In some ways it's fine, but...Bren, you're not hearing me. I don't want _this_ to change." His arm tightened around her, firmly, and she looked up at him. "I finally had the time to figure out what was wrong, maybe even how to work on what was wrong, and when I go back, I won't have that time anymore. The thing about the company...it _eats_ you. There won't be any time for me, it's all just...the character. The schtick. Everything that I fixed while I was here, I just...I don't...I don't want it to come apart."

"Then you work on those things, as much as you can, once you're out the door. Don't you?" Brena sounded confused. "I mean, I'm sure the company will give you time for appointments and things. It's not like everything just falls apart."

The chuckle that escaped Nick was dry, and rested on a thin line of amusement and irritation. _'Bren, you're listening, but you're not hearing me. Let me guess, you think I mean therapy.'_ "Yeah, I'm sure if I need more PT, I can get it. But, c'mon Brena...I leave and it's 's back to doing Raw, taping Smackdown, then on to the next town, next city, next country. The WWE doesn't leave time for anything, no matter how important it is. Guys I work with, shit, do you know how many guys have kids and they watch them grow up on Skype? Like...I realized..."

His silence was uncomfortable after a few moments, so Brena leaned up and spoke, nearly inaudible. Even Deaglan tilted a bit to listen. "What did you realize, mo trodaire?"

"That I still want the job...the work...but when I can't do it anymore, when the WWE says, 'That's enough, you're too damaged,' that I've got something to...to...well…" He clenched his jaw and squinted, debating the merits of hauling Brena up over him – it wouldn't take much – and kissing her. "I want someone to come home to. A _home_ to come home to. Meredith knows what I mean, go figure. I talked to her about it."

"And why on earth are you worried about something that's so far in the future? You're not retiring tomorrow, you know." Brena slipped her hand out from under Nick's and brushed his hair back from his face, resting the back of her hand against his jaw. Neither of them could see Deaglan's contented expression from where they lay.

"That's the thing, I could be. My first night back, someone could ram me into a ring post and it's good night to Dolph, hello to Nick. I get one more concussion and the WWE is going to pack me away."

Brena tilted her head, trying to look up at him properly and failing. "Fair enough, but you'd still have other things. Family. Career options. You could retire comfortably, I imagine. Maybe not enthusiastically, but comfortably."

"Family? I see my family when everyone's schedules line up. They do their own shit, I do mine. I mean, I'm always welcome at home, but when you're always showing up by yourself, it gets old. I know we all have our own lives, but..."

"Maybe a retirement would let you reconnect with them, rebuild some of those relationships that it sounds like your job has pulled apart?" Brena mused. "Not to mention, I'm sure people love you. You won't be forgotten overnight. Look at those letters, for example. You weren't there when people wrote to you, but you were obviously still missed."

"It's not the same, Bren. Sure, maybe I can have an adult relationship with my folks and my brother, like everyone else does, but in the end that's still lonely. Like, I go and visit, we eat a good meal, talk about old times, it's all great. But when the time comes to leave? Maybe I want to know I'm going home to something, not just always leaving something, get what I'm saying?"

"Then maybe it's not a bad thing if you do wrap your career up early? It'd give you the time you seem to want in order to find the person you seem to want. Er, assuming I'm hearing you right, I mean. You sound like you want someone to go home to."

"I do, Bren," Nick turned a bit, looked down at her, and felt his face confuse seriousness with warmth, "I mean, I'm thinking of someone, but you know how it is when you're afraid to bet your future on something, when you don't know what will be there, and because you know you can't do shit about it. I mean, how do you know what someone else is thinking? What they want?" He rolled his eyes at himself. "I'm not saying shit right."

Oddly, he was. Brena felt no closer to a future of her own; while she loved Deaglan, she also believed there was no room in her current equation for another person. No matter how understanding, or patient, Brena's friends and lovers found themselves consumed by Deaglan's illness, all of them unable or unwilling to live a life with her that also allowed room for her uncle. "Well, mo trodaire," Brena mumbled into Nick's side, "I'm no better with words myself." She held tremendously still and dared herself to fall asleep - a challenge her exhausted body gladly accepted.

* * *

An hour later, Meredith chanced walking into the room, the space having gone too quiet for her liking. Upon seeing Brena half-laid on top of Nick, Nick's arm still tight around her shoulders, and one of his legs wedged firmly behind the lowered bedrail to keep them both from slipping, she sighed and shook her head. Deaglan, having changed his focus from the other bed to Meredith, and seeing the smile that accompanied her motion and expression, was only too happy to grab the edge of his quilt and shake the peacock as though it could fly off the fabric.


	21. Hollow (Pt 1)

Content Warning.

* * *

Everything she could think of, she sang. She sang until her throat was raw again, and then she kept singing, her voice a rasping, sandpaper echo against the metallic fixtures and tile floor of the room, competing for space with the antiseptic scent in the air. Some songs had words, some were just the thick croaking of the notes she could remember from the time Hazel had spent with her as a child, the two hunched over the upright piano in the parlor, Brena learning arrangements for requiems and pared-down orchestrals. The overhead lights were too harsh, the air too cold, the heart she swore was in her body an hour ago now quiet. Beating, to be sure, but oddly quiet. And so she sang.

* * *

"He's burning up, Meredith. Like...like fire. He wasn't like this last night – what's happening?" Brena had wrapped her arms around herself, shoving them up the opposite sleeves of her hoodie as she stood and shivered near Deaglan's bed.

"We don't know, Bren. I'm sorry. We're waiting on basic labs to come back and we're sending him for an MRI. You're burning up, too; something's-" Brena's sudden, wicked coughing fit stopped Meredith mid-sentence; Brena had doubled over and couldn't stop hacking long enough to catch her breath. Lunging for the call button, Meredith dragged Brena over to the chair near Deaglan's bed and forced her into it, praying that the sheer oddity of Deaglan's call light coming on that late would be enough to bring the midnight shift to the room. _'Thank God I'm here on a double, at least._ _She never would have called for herself, and she can't call for him. Fuck, she can't even breathe_ _.'_

Nick surfaced from the depths of of a dream, in large part due to the wet, barking sound coming from Brena. Meredith couldn't talk quietly if she was paid, and her volume finished the job – Nick ended up awake. His sleep-soaked mind couldn't let him focus on any one thing long enough to understand what was going on. Through the crowd of people pouring into the room along with their wall of sound, he caught sight of Brena seated next to Deaglan's bed, bent over her knees and still gasping for air, followed by the sight of Deaglan, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, mouth hanging open, a rattling moan coming from him at the end of each breath. His eyes were open, but he hadn't turned toward Brena to see why she was coming apart. Nick started to sit up, but Meredith lunged at his bed, blocking him from completing the motion and getting out.

"No! Absolutely not! You need labs, _now_ – I have to get a phlebotomist in here for you. And you better fuckin' pray we don't need to do a tap."

"Mer, what the fuck – I mean – me? What's wrong with _them_?"

Looking back over her shoulder, seeing the brake-locks disengage from Deaglan's bed wheels as a technician passed masks to everyone and also slipped them onto Deaglan and Brena's faces, she shook her head. "We don't know yet, Nick." She passed a mask to him, and slipped one on herself. "But right now, you can't go over there. Stay in the bed." Quick enough to cause a breeze, Deaglan was rolled from the room, his privacy curtain fluttering in his wake.

Meanwhile, Brena had forced herself to standing. She was pale as sin and wobbled badly as she rose from the chair. Her coughing had stopped, but her skin was damp like Deaglan's and she looked lost in the room. She turned, seeming to grope for the edge of Deaglan's bed, but with it – and him – being out of the room, she almost pitched forward. Meredith rushed over to her and forced her back into the chair, crouching in front of her.

"Brena, Deaglan's going to the lab. Stay in the chair, okay? We're gonna get someone in here to do some tests with you."

"Mer, it's," Brena coughed again, hard, and her throat sounded raw, "It's nothing. A bad cold. Just go help Deaglan. Please. I'll stay here."

"I'll make sure she stays put, Mer. Go do what you gotta do." Nick hadn't put his mask on, and Brena had pulled hers off, her hair in sweaty tendrils around her face. Throwing her hands in the air, Meredith left the room and closed the door behind her, talking to herself about personal protective equipment, negative pressure rooms, and antibiotics. Cautiously, grateful for a lack of an audience, Nick slid from the bed and crept over to Brena, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay? What's going on?"

She shrugged, not wanting to start coughing while Nick was so close. Waving him back toward his bed – though she knew he wouldn't go – she held her mask up to her face before speaking. "They'll figure it out, Nick." She sounded exhausted and out of breath, and was shivering so hard her teeth chattered. "Deaglan looked sick yesterday, and I-" She started coughing again, "I'm not feeling well." Nick passed her a glass of water, but she stared blankly into it. "Nick, what if...what if I made him ill?" She was bent around herself and over half the arm of the chair as though a spasm was pulling her down, one hand occupied with her mask, the other with the glass of water.

"Stop it, Brena. Seriously, quit." Nick loomed over her, stern, arms folded, refusing to let her go any further down the road of self-doubt. "It's a hospital. Sick people come in here all the time. Visitors. He might not even _be_ sick. It could be a bad reaction to a med, it could be a bad meal, anything." He pulled the quilt from his bed and wrapped it around her, Deaglan's peacock quilt having disappeared with him down the hall. "Think, okay? Anything happen the last few days?"

Brena looked spent and worn, like she couldn't collect herself enough to remember her own name, let alone think across a span of time. Still shaking, she tried to bring the glass of water to her mouth, then began coughing again, hard enough to cause her to drop the glass on the floor. It shattered, spraying water and broken glass everywhere. At the sound, an orderly sprinted to the room from the hall, and shoved Nick back from Brena's side, up against his bed, snapping the privacy curtain shut behind him.

"Sir, you were told to stay away from that area."

"Area?" Nick was incredulous. "It's the same fuckin' room! How am I supposed to-"

The next few minutes were a blur; Nick would later remember hearing a wet thump, along with the orderly snapping the curtain open again and yelling for a chair. Much rougher than Nick would have liked, the orderly rolled Brena onto her side, unfortunately further through the broken glass and water. Her lips had a bluish tinge to them, and the spilled water soaked into her hoodie, making wet spots that looked almost black against the white floor tiles. Meredith, unaccustomed to having to be in so many places at once, ran back into the room, completely out of breath, and shoved Nick forcibly down on the bed – not that he remembered when he'd moved again, or how – before she helped to lift Brena into a wheelchair; her head lolled back and forth before dropping dangerously low onto her chest, making each breath, short and shallow as they were, into a wheeze. Meredith directed the chair out into a hallway, helped lift Brena onto a gurney, and barked out a series of halls and room numbers to the orderlies, who began to run, Brena in tow.

When Meredith came back into the room, she came in wearing a billowing, gauzy yellow gown of sorts, long gloves, and a mask, stopping only long enough to drop a laundry bag near the door. "The phlebotomist is here, Nick. Sit down – why the fuck do you keep getting up? Roll up a sleeve. Then, we need throat cultures. Once that's done, you're getting a flu shot and Menactra."

"Fuck that, Meredith. Nobody does _anything_ until-"

Meredith slammed into him, harder than he was prepared for, and he staggered backward. She didn't manage to sit him down; he more banged into the edge of the bed than anything else.

"Nick, we don't have _time_ for this! Just do what I'm telling you to do!"

Glaring, Nick complied and offered up his arm to the phlebotomist, amazed by the silence that descended on Meredith as she worked on taking his vitals – she usually never stopped talking. Housekeeping came in while the phlebotomist poked at Nick, spraying enough sanitizer and chemical agent to strip the wax off the floor, never mind killing any germs. He winced as he got not one, but two, immunizations from Meredith, who was not entirely gentle with him, and then winced again when he heard the mop scrape through the pieces of broken glass and then smear thin, red lines behind it. _'I didn't think Bren got cut...did she? She didn't even move, if she did.'_

When Meredith was finished, she simply stood there, looking at the empty syringes in her hand. "Okay, Mer. What the fuck. Talk to me." The fight was out of Nick, as was the panic. He was numb, now, both arms in pain and mind whirling. _'This is like the night I came in. This is like a bad dream. Meredith is gonna say something hilarious now, and I'll wake up, and it'll be fine._ _Bren and Deaglan are gonna be right over there, right there. Where they always are._ _'_

"With Bren, they're thinking exhaustion, dehydration, and flu. She said she felt shitty for a few days, it...it probably caught up to her. Deaglan's a different story, though, and that's the problem."

"Deaglan is _not_ a problem!" Nick hadn't meant to snap, but Alison's visit was still fresh in his mind. It took weeks to pull Brena out of the funk Alison had put her in – it was just barely into November, and she'd finally come around to her old self. They'd had a teasing, strangely tender conversation about Halloween – and in some ways, each other – after Nick had chased Alison from the room, culminating in Brena falling asleep across his chest, curled over him like an alley cat in the sun, his chest her pillow, one hand grasping the hem of his shirt, the other arm threaded behind his neck, her fingers knit through the frizzed ends of his hair. Brena's legs knotted around his, and her warmth reminded him of sinking into a bath. Nick had done no better; he'd fallen asleep under her, one arm around her shoulders, his hand full of the underside of the sleeve of her hoodie, the other arm behind his head and against her arm, propping him up just enough to make visible the contours of her cheekbones and curve of her lips. He'd put his leg to sleep trying to keep them both from slipping off the bed, and felt strangely proud when he woke up before Brena did and was met by a smiling, hand-waving Deaglan. Nick hadn't been particularly worried that Brena's uncle would be unhappy with him for holding her in bed, but it was pleasant confirmation that something was going right, that his presence was welcome and approved-of by the most important man in Brena's life.

Meredith shook her head, then looked up at Nick as though she hadn't heard him at all. "I didn't say he was a problem, Nick. I said his case was _different_. Dr. Morgan..."

"Morgan _what?_ Mer, stop fucking me around on this. I don't care if I'm sick, I care that _they're_ sick."

"Morgan thinks it's more serious than the flu, but doesn't know what. Deaglan can't tell us what's going on or what he's feeling, and his symptoms were sudden-onset. Brena's felt shitty for a few days; Deaglan just decompensated."

"I'm not a doctor. What does that mean? What _are_ they thinking?" Nick expected himself to sound irritated, even angry, but all that came out was concern.

"He doesn't go anywhere without Brena, and she's sick, but he's _more_ sick. Dr. Morgan doesn't think they've got the same thing. She-"

"She _passed out_ , Meredith! How the fuck is there more to it? What are they _thinking_?" Concern bubbled over into desperation; Meredith was talking, but wasn't giving Nick any actual answers. He was debating the merits of getting up and looking for Brena himself; he was fairly sure he could remember some of the room numbers Meredith had spouted off, but knew he'd risk both his health and Brena's if he did.

"They're trying to figure out what to think. You need to stay in here, Nick. Flu is bad enough; we don't need it throughout the building. I'm gonna be in and out today, to get vitals. Whatever this is, we need to make sure you don't get it. And here, open your mouth." She scrubbed the back of Nick's throat with a frighteningly long swab, dropping it into a plastic packet when she was finished. "I'll be back with medication." Meredith sped from the room, stripping off her gloves and gown at the doorway and dropping them into the laundry bag as she left.

Without any ideas as to what was going on, Nick became immediately restless. He picked up his bedside phone and debated calling Claudio, but without knowing where his friend was or what time zone he was in, the call could be useless. Meredith was bellowing orders into one phone at the desk; Dr. Morgan had appeared – _'On the fuckin' midnight shift. This has to be bad.' –_ seemingly out of nowhere and was barking into another phone. Deaglan and Brena's half of the room was empty, with Nick's – or rather, Brena's – quilt thrown carelessly across the chair Brena had occupied. One corner trailed on the floor, and had sopped up some of the spilled water. Suddenly furious, and acutely aware of how cold the room was, Nick stomped over to the quilt, snapped it up from the floor, and hung it over the towel rack in his bathroom. _'At least I did something,'_ he thought, smoothing the quilt, _'I didn't just stand there and let it all go to shit.'_

* * *

Meredith came back to the room an hour later, Nick sitting bunched, chilly, and miserable in his bed, trying to find something to do on his laptop that would keep him occupied while he waited for the quilt to dry. He was involved in lengthy internet searches on current disease trends in Philadelphia along with cross-referencing the Mayo Clinic website to enter list after list of what he thought he remembered of Brena's symptoms, and it barely registered when Meredith walked up to his bed.

"Here, take this." Meredith's words were an order and not a request, and Nick wrinkled his nose at the plastic cup she handed over. Deciding that it wasn't the time to argue – and not having the slightest clue what time it was, other than 'very late' – he took the pills and sat back, waiting to be told either what he'd just swallowed or how Brena and Deaglan were faring. Instead, Meredith launched into a long list of questions about how much time he'd spent with Brena and Deaglan, where they'd gone in the building, and if he knew where Brena went with her uncle when they left the building. Nick played along and answered all of Meredith's questions until she went a step too far.

"Did you kiss her?"

"For fuck's sake, Meredith, is this _really_ the time for-"

"Nick, you need to answer me. For your sake." Meredith's voice had an urgency that unnerved him, and though he felt himself, for reasons he couldn't understand, growing more and more tired, he forced himself to reply.

"No, Meredith, I haven't kissed her. She fell asleep on me after Alison Whatshername left, but that's as close as we've been. She sits by me when we look at photos. Sometimes we swap laptops, but I don't think I need a condom for that. Now, will you please tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Sighing, Meredith slotted her pen in her clipboard and looked up. "Flu. Bad, bad case of the flu. She really should go to a full-out hospital – this place specializes in brain injuries, not shit like what she's got – but Deaglan's already been exposed, so have you, and..."

"And _what_ , Meredith?" Nick choked down a yawn, "What else?"

"And we still don't know what's going on with Deaglan. It's not the flu, we know that much. We did a spinal tap, we drew more blood, and now we're waiting."

"Brena didn't have to get a...a….spinal thing, right?" She'd told Nick, once, how much she wished Deaglan didn't have to go through the numerous spinal taps that were part of the study, in part because he was so fragile, and in part because she'd find herself unable to go fully into the labs with him, hold his hands, stroke his cheek – all because needles terrified her. She'd explained it to Nick, after the phlebotomist had made hash of Deaglan's arm when Nick was still in the early weeks of his own treatment – that night, she'd come back to the room while Deaglan's labwork was performed.

Needles hadn't ever bothered Brena before she'd started to care for Hazel. The first time she'd taken her aunt to a medical appointment, the phlebotomist greeted Hazel with a hug, and gestured for Brena to take a seat and remain in the room. Hazel smiled at Brena, rolled up her sleeve, and for the five minutes it took the phlebotomist to complete the draw, digging for buried, dehydrated veins deep in Hazel's arms, silent tears flowed from her eyes. Afterward, Brena sat quiet and shocked at Hazel's stoicism, and Hazel explained it was fine that it hurt, because it was part of trying to get better, get help, be well again. Even after that, Brena went with Hazel to each draw, all the way back into the lab, and watched her aunt cry silently. Then, after months of that routine, she watched her aunt die, no help or wellness coming despite the bruises that lined the insides of her arms and the backs of her hands. Brena had tried, with Deaglan, but her tears were less than silent during his first spinal tap – he was sedated, he felt nothing – but all she could think of was Hazel's past and Deaglan's shrinking future.

"No. We tested her first, and we start with least-invasive measures. So...we drew blood; she didn't do so hot with that, and did a bunch of cultures. That's how we figured out it was the flu. I've _never_ seen a culture come back positive so fast in my life. We _thought_ that's what Deaglan had, but...no."

"Okay," Nick continued, this time unable to hold back his yawn, "Now what?"

"Now we wait for Morgan to decide if we need to quarantine them, if we can keep them in here with you, whatever. We _should_ send her out to a hospital, or at least home, since she's contagious. But...you've already been exposed and so has Deaglan. She won't want to leave him. We shouldn't risk opening up another room; it'll just spread the germs further through the hospital. She got a shitload of flu antivirals; now we wait for Morgan to make up his mind."

Nick was silent for a moment, hazy and confused, and Meredith almost turned to go before he spoke again. "Mer...what'd you give me?"

"Flu antivirals and Ambien, Nick. Enjoy your precautions and your nap."

Woozy, this time from fighting the sleeping pill, Nick flopped back against his pillow, the tiniest hint of ginger coming off of it. In that brief moment before sleep overtook him, he wished fervently that he hadn't washed the shirt he wore when Brena fell asleep on him. Her scent had soaked into it.

* * *

Two sharp clicks roused him only a few hours later, and Nick could see a watery dawn starting to slip through the curtains. The clicks came from the wheel latches on the extra bed that suddenly appeared in the room; Brena's twiggy hand slipped out from under the hospital blanket covering her and grasped at the orderly who'd brought her back. Attached to the back of Brena's hand was an IV line, and Nick winced. The orderly patted at her, quietly assured her she was almost done with the IV and the bag of fluid attached to it before reminding her not to touch the bandage on her neck – the broken glass had made a thin slice as Brena rolled over it – and to keep her mask on, before leaving the room, gently shutting the door behind her.

Slowly, with feet and legs that fought the rest of him, Nick dropped from his bed and shuffled toward Brena. She looked grey, rather than just her typical shade of pale, and dark circles had formed under her eyes. Cautiously, Nick reached for her hand, trying to get her attention without earning a rebuke for being so close to the bed.

"Go back to sleep, mo trodaire," Brena managed a rasp before Nick even touched her, "Besides, I don't want to get you sick." She tried to shuffle her hands around, keep herself out of reach of him, but Nick was determined and leaned heavily against the edge of her bed before pinning one of her hands under his, trying to avoid the IV line as he curled his fingers around hers.

"I'm so full of meds, Bren...there's nothing you could give me, right now. Maybe plague from outer space, but that's it. And since I know you've got the flu..." He sat on the edge of her bed. "Are you gonna be okay?"

She nodded, but looked guilty, as though she knew she was lying to him. "I'm fine, Nick." Brena shivered before she continued. "It's Deaglan I'm-" She coughed, violently, and Nick looked around for water. The glass she broke hadn't been replaced, so Nick brought his own over to her. Brena pushed herself up to sitting once she'd stopped coughing, and moved her mask just enough to sip at the water, trying not to move her hands more than necessary. Even the sight of the IV line made her feel ill, and she swore she could feel it move every time she flexed her fingers. "I'm worried about him. Deaglan. And you. Are you alright?"

Nick was tilted forward, toward Brena, in part to catch the water glass if she dropped it, and in part because he was seconds away from launching himself at her, folding her against his chest and refusing to give her back to the world. As he debated whether to act on impulse or answer Brena's question, Meredith barged into the room.

"Brena, we have to talk." Her voice was stern, but it wasn't her tone that startled both Brena and Nick – it was the fact she'd used Brena's name in addressing her.

"First, can I see him?"

"No. Talk, first. There are complications."

Hours later, her IV removed and the bandage on her neck gone, Brena was at Deaglan's bedside in a sterile new room, wrapped in the same type of gauzy yellow gown Meredith wore earlier, along with gloves for her hands and a mask covering her face. Deaglan stared out into space, his lips dry and thin, occasionally popping apart before sticking back together, words trying to force their way to the surface. His skin was clammy and pale, and his moans were met by an ever-increasing flow of morphine that threatened to push him under the surface of wakefulness and out into oblivion.

 _'Meningitis,'_ Brena thought, ' _Of all the things to happen to him, to his mind, this had to be a possibility.'_ She clutched at his hand and leaned up against the edge of the bed, resting her head on his shoulder. She'd been warned against laying in the bed with him, in case there was an emergency, but regardless was so tired she'd take the rest in any position she could get it. At various points, specialists and technicians came in to talk to her, but she was too mentally and physically spent to retain much of what was being said to her about Deaglan and his condition. Trying to move between the old room Nick was in and Deaglan's new accommodations had proved exhausting for Brena, but she forced herself through the motions anyway, until she nearly collapsed again – this time, in the hallway, terrifying the patients, families, and staff who were present for the scene. Her lips still grey, her face a deathly pallor, she managed to slide along the wall toward the nurses' station, where Meredith grabbed hold of her and guided her back to Nick's room and her bed, right before calling Dr. Morgan from Brena's bedside.

* * *

Dr. Morgan, in an effort to rationalize the ensuing decision even to himself, announced that he wanted neither the flu nor meningitis spread throughout his facility, and declared the three Patients Zero would be housed together, with Nick limited to bed-baths and in-room meals until the source of the outbreak could be found. Nick hadn't realized meningitis was common to shower floors or group-style housing until Meredith explained, and even then, his head spun from the amount of information she dumped on him.

To Nick, it made no sense. He and Deaglan never traded use of showers or bathrooms; Brena had used Nick's shower once before, but too long ago to be the cause of Deaglan's meningitis now, and Deaglan's primary bathroom had tested negative. Beyond shower mist being a possible method of conveyance, the only person breathing on him or coughing near him – that the facility was aware of – had been Brena, and Brena had the flu, which neither Nick nor Deaglan managed to catch despite their close proximity to her. However, she showed no signs of meningitis. Brena, knowing she wasn't well, had tried not to share glasses with Deaglan, a move that had likely spared her from catching the disease. The facility now had the unpleasant and complicated task of figuring out where Deaglan had contracted meningitis, and praying it wouldn't lead to the disease being spread across patients.

Brena refused a diagnostic spinal tap, saying she'd rather take the giant shot of prophylactic antibiotics instead, and hope for the best. Dr. Morgan wasn't thrilled with the decision, but legally he couldn't force her to undergo the test, and in his heart he didn't feel he could force her from Deaglan's bedside. Nick, while he knew he could have been moved, even _should_ have been moved, said nothing about being housed with a meningitis patient and his flu-ridden daughter. And yet, there he was, no more than eight feet away, after Meredith pushed Dr. Morgan into changing rooms back to their original arrangement. Nick tried to convince himself that he said nothing because he didn't care, he'd already been exposed, the damage was done, but a louder, more insistent part of himself said no: he chose silence because he needed to be where he was, with them.

If he only had a heart, indeed.

"Can he hear you, Bren?" Nick, glad as he was to have them both back in the room with him, threatened no more than a whisper. He felt he was intruding enough simply by being present.

"I think so, Nick."

"What are you gonna tell him?"

Muffled from behind the mask, Brena coughed a few times, dipping her head low as though she could offer an extra layer of protection to everyone in the room if she just tried hard enough. "I don't know, mo trodaire. I'll tell him...I'll tell him he's loved, no matter what." She leaned further up against the edge of the bed, tucking her head against Deaglan's shoulder, and began to hum a rattling, gritty-sounding song into the crook of Deaglan's neck – the best her raw throat would give her at the moment.


	22. Hollow (Pt 2)

Content Warning.

* * *

Night passed, and the greyish, thin morning that followed slipped into an equally grey, but much colder afternoon. Brena's wheezing matched Deaglan's, and Nick found his head turning abruptly toward their bed more than once, when the wheezing stilled into a void of silence and fear crowded too eagerly into the space.

It was in one of those moments that an alarm sounded from one of the machines over Deaglan's bed, bringing Meredith and a host of other personnel to the room. A lead had slipped from his fingertip, though more than a few specialists commented that his oxygen levels were shockingly low, even once the lead was replaced. Brena sat up long enough to listen and adjust Deaglan's quilt over him, and then dropped back against the side of the bed once oxygen had been added to her uncle's treatment. The crowd dispersed, which was just as well, the commotion and effort of paying attention had exhausted her. Nick brought his now-dry quilt to Brena and draped it over her as she hung half-off Deaglan's bed, deciding that he could find an extra shirt or hospital blanket for himself if it meant she'd be comfortably warm. Squeezing her shoulder gently before returning to fussing with her quilt, he realized Brena had fallen asleep – not strange in and of itself, she was often exhausted past measure – but concerning, given that she'd just received bad news about Deaglan and was seemingly too tired to react.

"We found it." Meredith's voice was flat and dry from the doorway, and Nick only half-turned toward her, still busy adjusting the quilt over Brena. It had suddenly become very important to him that the ends of the quilt wrap completely around her – as important as not hearing whatever it was Meredith was talking about. He had the sinking feeling the information wouldn't be pleasant.

"One of our nurse aides," Meredith continued, stepping into the room, fully gowned and gloved, "She's a college girl, works part-time. She's got meningitis, along with five other students in her dorm. The university is sanitizing, but that doesn't help anything here."

"The nurse aides never touch him, Mer. That doesn't make sense." Nick couldn't process what she was saying, that it was all just an accident, a nasty happenstance of sorts.

"Well, this one did. She thinks she cleared his meal tray from the room; that was probably when she breathed on him, or coughed. Brena could have been in the bathroom with the coffee pot, or looking out the window, or who knows what. It doesn't matter. The aide has meningitis, and now Deaglan has meningitis, and since the aide was clearing trays you're lucky you _don't_ have meningitis."

"Forget about me! Who cares! Meredith, _Deaglan_ has it! We...we have to _fix_ it!" Hissing a whisper, trying not to wake Brena or bother Deaglan, Nick was oscillating between violently angry and completely terrified. "Is...is it something I _could_ have?"

"We can always do a spinal tap, if you want. I won't lie, it's not comfortable. Or, you can do what Bren did, take the medication and hope for the best." Nick started to speak, then stopped himself, looking to Meredith for guidance. "Nick, I don't," She stopped and sighed. "It's bacterial meningitis. You're in good health, you can take some time to make the decision – hours, not days, though."

"And Deaglan-"

"We don't know anything more, Nick. Hopefully, we caught it. Bacterial meningitis can be lethal within hours, and we're past that." Meredith cleared her throat loudly, trying to segue gracefully. "If you're going to go near his bed, though, you'll need a mask and gloves – non-negotiable. The bacteria doesn't live long outside the body, and you're generally not touching him...but Brena is, and you touch Brena. There's a risk of transmission, even if it's small, just from proximity. He's not coughing, but he _is_ breathing. C'mere, you're gonna wash your hands. And officially, I may as well just suggest the antibiotics. Brena couldn't handle you getting a tap, anyway." Meredith led Nick to his sink, set up hot water and soap for him, and coached him through scrubbing his hands and arms. The whole time, he kept one ear tuned to the main room, listening for any groan or rasp that sounded out of the ordinary – or any silence that carried on too long. Drying his hands, he returned to his bed, but looked lost. Meredith regarded him carefully, closely, then turned to go.

"Hey, Mer? It's prolly not protocol, but can I tell her? How he got it, I mean?"

"No, Blondie. Morgan's gonna be in to talk to her; don't take offense to that. Trust me, it's not a job you want."

* * *

Lunch came and went, Nick shoved his meal from one side of his plate to another; Brena ignored hers entirely. Deaglan was placed on an IV feeding plan, TPN, and though Brena tried to keep her eyes cold, Nick saw fear register in them. Quietly, secretly, he'd pulled up another webpage, too afraid himself to ask outright what the purpose of the fluid was, and was horrified to see that Deaglan, despite having what was essentially the perfect blend of nutrients being administered to him, would still feel hunger. Deaglan couldn't sit himself up, let alone coordinate the motions for chewing and swallowing, so a proper meal was out of the question. The time Brena had spent cutting entrees into manageable bites, brewing perfect cups of coffee, or making sure each scoop of ice cream was savored, was now spent watching the constant drip of a clear fluid into an IV line that could be present for days.

It wasn't just the meals, Nick realized, it was all of Brena's interaction with Deaglan that had been taken away from her, all in one blow, in mere minutes. Her hands were wrapped in nitrile gloves, preventing her from having any meaningful contact with him – where before, she'd run her thumb across the back of his hand, or hold her fingers over his against the pages of photo albums, now there was a cold, rubbery layer between them. Her voice was muffled by her mask, distorted by the hoarseness of her throat, and Deaglan was incapable of any response. His lips ticked and stuck together, forming warped sounds and half-words, but nothing intelligible came out of him. In the past, Brena could gesture at an object, or turn on music, and earn a response from Deaglan – even start a conversation – but now his eyes were empty and she couldn't be sure he heard her. He seemed unable to communicate anything he thought or felt, and Brena was crippled by her inability to meet even a single one of his needs.

 _'How would I – no, what would I – no, I couldn't. I wouldn't know how to deal with it or what to do, and I couldn't handle it.'_ Nick felt something tighten inside him, something that was a close cousin of the rage he'd felt when Stephen had worked him over in their last match together, but much more personal this time. It rendered him mute and shocked him in its intensity. He didn't just want to do something to help; he _needed_ to do something to _fix_ the situation, to rewind everything by days and tell the staff to medicate Deaglan, to make Brena take a nap, to get the damned nurse aide to stay at her dorm – anything, just anything he could do to put the three of them back together the way they were. There was nothing within reach, however, and time refused to move anywhere but forward.

* * *

The idea of a 'day' fast became an unfathomable concept to Nick and Brena; hours were more manageable, but barely. He stayed still and was generally in his bed, watching her; she stayed equally still and absolutely by Deaglan's side, wracked by spasms and shivers, nearly hurled to the ground by fits of coughing, coated in a gloss of sweat from a fever that refused to break. Doctors came and went; one day pressed into two, though everything in the room was in an ugly stasis. Brena barely registered the presence of the various medical personnel who hovered and then left from Deaglan's bedside, and looked dazed and surprised by them when she realized they were in the room. In hushed tones, they would discuss Deaglan outside the door; Nick tried to listen without being noticed. Nothing they said sounded promising; their comments about depletion and decompensation and degradation were chilling.

The second day arched up over them, the sun trying desperately to warm the cool November air before being pushed firmly down by the night and thick, dark clouds. _'Black sheepswool,'_ Nick mused, _'Brena would call those black sheepswool clouds. Nobody likes them, but every sky has a few.'_

Eventually, in an effort to keep himself awake as night pushed forward, Nick found himself watching the heart rate monitor over Deaglan's bed. The long, flat line seemed to stretch a little further between each beat; he held his breath and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude each time a new, brightly green peak vaulted up the screen. At one point, Brena turned her face away from Deaglan, in profile over her shoulder, and crushed her eyes closed. The expression was pained, and Nick started to go to her. It was only the trill of the heart monitor that stopped him, though he didn't understand how. Sleep followed, and Nick understood that even less.

* * *

"It won't be long, now." Meredith came into the room in a gown, her footsteps startling Nick awake. She whispered her words to him once he'd fully come-to. When Nick searched out the wall clock, she only shook her head and put her hand on his shoulder. _'I'm not on shift, Blondie. I'm on God's time, and we're all in His waiting room.'_

Meredith next went to Brena and leaned down over her, holding her and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She whispered something before she pulled away, and Brena turned her head ever-so-slightly, the corners of her lips turning up nearly imperceptibly.

"Nick, she's going to need you to-" Meredith moved back to his bed and stopped, her throat constricting, "Well," she tried again, "You just need to be here. Please."

* * *

One hour passed, then two, and Nick was beginning to drowse off again in the stillness of the room, the only sound breaking through the air being Brena's occasional attempt at singing. She approached it as though she'd been in the middle of a tune in her head, then remembered she ought to be singing out loud. It was the fever, Nick guessed, making her delirious, or the fear. Meredith waved off the orderly at the door, his attempt at checking vitals an entirely unnecessary intrusion. Brena held Deaglan's hand; Nick held himself back from standing at her side.

Eventually, the wheezing slowed, and Meredith used Nick's bedside phone to place several quiet calls to the nurses' station before turning off the alerts and alarms on the equipment surrounding Deaglan's bed. Her action barely registered with Brena, who looked up with mild interest, but was quick to drop her head back to her uncle's shoulder, blindly pulling his quilt up around him. Not long after, Dr. Morgan appeared at the doorway, hovering, and Nick almost screamed at him to get out, go home, it wasn't his turn to have Deaglan yet because Brena wasn't done. There had to be another hour, somewhere, that could be borrowed. And so Deaglan listened, waited, and Brena sang.

* * *

"Brena."

Dazed, Brena swayed back and forth while she forced herself upright at Deaglan's bedside, not sure what she had or hadn't heard. Deaglan had turned his head just enough to face her, and his focus locked onto her firmly despite the medication and late hour.

"I'm here, Uncle D. It's okay."

"Hazel?" His voice was small and dry, full of the dust of the millions of pages of books Brena had read to him.

"No, Uncle D. Hazel-" Brena cleared her throat, hard, though it did nothing to shore up her voice. "Hazel's not here. She's passed away. You're in a hospital."

Deaglan's head tilted, as though he was considering her information, thinking his way through a photo album in his mind. "Deaglan. Hazel. _Birds_ , Brena."

Squeezing his hand, then shoulder, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, Brena couldn't still the quiver in her chin. "Always, Uncle D. You always loved Hazel and her birds."

Fighting the morphine, the antibiotics, the pain of hunger and fatigue and death, Deaglan fought to lean toward her, working his lips around her name again and again, Brena working equally hard to still both him and herself.

Deaglan tried, one last time, on the edge of lucidity, to make her understand.

"Brena?"

"Yes, Uncle Deaglan. I'm here."

"Brena," he whispered, determined, "Brena?"

"What is it?"

"Nick?"

Unable to stop herself from smiling despite the tears crawling down her face, Brena nodded. "Yes, he's here."

" _Nick_ , Brena. Birds."

* * *

Eyes that had stared at Brena found a peculiar speed with which to stare at nothing at all. Meredith crept forward, trying to gently pull Brena's chair back from the bed. Nick hadn't realized Deaglan died until Meredith's hands closed around Brena's and some degree of force was necessary to get her to let go of her uncle. Dr. Morgan was suddenly in the room, too large and intense for the already large and intense thing that had just swept over them all, snapping leads off of Deaglan and various machines, locking bedrails with vigor, and disengaging brakes far more loudly than was necessary.

Brena looked lost; even more unsure than she'd been a few days earlier when her uncle had first been rushed from the room for diagnostics. Now, back around again to night, there was nothing left. On instinct, she reached for her uncle, but Dr. Morgan stepped in front of her, his back to her as he continued working against the leads and lines attached to her uncle's body.

"No, Brena," He spoke without looking at her and pushed the bed toward the door, where two orderlies pushed Deaglan's quilt to the floor and pulled a white sheet up over his face, "You have to stay here." A strange, strangled, mewling sound tied itself in a knot in Brena's throat, and Meredith pulled her back down onto the chair, wrapping one arm around her.

"But-" Brena started, "Dr. Morgan, I just – I mean, he's – I'm –"

"Meredith, you're with me." Ignoring Brena and turning the head of the bed to fit through the door, he wheeled the bed over the peacock quilt before stepping on it himself, pointing down the hall for the orderlies to start moving.

"I'm not on shift right now." Meredith was more startled than cold, and her grip on Brena tightened. Nick watched the expressions on the faces of both women roll and heave; neither was giving him any clue as to what Morgan could possibly have needed Meredith to do.

"You're _here._ That means you're going to do this." Dr. Morgan pointed toward the door. "We're in O.R. Four. You'll be there in no more than ten minutes." He bounded down the hallway after the rolling bed, barking directions at the orderlies.

Nick banged his bedrail down and vaulted himself at Deaglan's crumpled quilt on the floor, trying to fold it, lift it, pass it to Brena, anything that was keeping Deaglan in the room and real, not just a heap of crumpled cloth and trodden memories. Meredith took one arm from Brena long enough to reach for Nick, trying to slow him from frenetic motion down into something that could manage to stay contained in the room.

"Nick, go wash your hands."

"Fuck that, Meredith, did you _see_? Did you see what he did? Just threw this on the floor like...like..."

Brena took that moment to wrench herself from the rest of Meredith's grasp and tried to lunge out the door; she caught her feet in the parts of Deaglan's quilt that had overflowed from Nick's arms and went pitching forward, Nick catching her before she hit the floor, her gown billowing, the breath gone out of her entirely. She looked up at him from the sloping angle he held her at, and then dug her fingers harshly into his chest. Meredith looked at the clock on the wall, then back to the door, and over to Nick, shaking her head.

"Nick, go wash your hands. And change your shirt. Pull it over back to front, not inside out." She reached for Brena and pulled her back from Nick, leading her toward Deaglan's closet. "Meningitis. You can't touch Brena like that while she's in that gown. Lemme fix it. You go, too. Wash."

Robotically, Nick went to his bathroom and scrubbed his arms, while Meredith dug for a t-shirt and Brena's yoga pants from Deaglan's closet before leading Brena into the second bathroom she had, until moments ago, shared with her uncle. She helped Brena wash her hands and arms, pulled the gown and the rest of her clothing from her, dressed her, and then peered out into the main room. Seeing Nick standing, confused, next to his bed, Meredith jerked her head at him, hoping he'd take the hint and get back in. Carefully, whispering in Brena's ear the entire way, Meredith walked her across the room and over to Nick's side, lifting Brena's hands up to the edge of his bed.

"You said you'd be here." Meredith was quiet, but her voice almost boomed around the now-empty room. "And now she's here, and she needs-"

Nick pulled Brena against his side, wrapping his arms far enough around her that he knew he'd be able to touch his own shoulders if he bent his fingers. "Go, Mer."

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, and nodding curtly, Meredith left the room, headed toward O.R. 4 and the autopsy she hadn't realized would cut her apart as well.

* * *

Always having an answer, a retort, or a move to pull out was generally considered an asset in Nick's line of work. Unfortunately, it did him no good in handling Brena. She dug her fingers into his arms, unsure herself if she was trying to keep him in place or pull him from her so she could run after her uncle. Awkwardly, Nick looked around, trying to gauge where the edge of the bed was in relation to the rest of him, and how best to solve the problem of wanting to lay down with Brena and slam the door shut on the night. She hadn't tried to move, hadn't even spoke, and it was only a shuddering and deep breath that caused him to focus back onto her directly.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, Bren?"

"Deaglan..." Nick's hand shifted enough to curl around the curve of her cheek, and she pressed her hand over his, "What did Deaglan mean about the birds?"

Pulling Brena backwards, he lifted her up onto the edge of the bed and eased her up towards his pillow, her hands moving only enough to let go of him and fall to her sides. "Brena," She barely moved, even when he put Deaglan's quilt over her, and her eyes were strangely glassy. "I mean, Bren...I don't..." Nick slid up into the bed next to her, and she turned into his side, forcing his arm out of the way so that she could more easily bury her face on his shirt, bury her tears in some kind of familiar silence. "I think he wants us to decide what it means, you know? Us...like...each other."

"He's _gone_ , Nick." Brena's voice was barely audible, "Deaglan's-"

"With Hazel now, right?" Nick cut in, not knowing what else to do, but knowing the words were pathetic, if well-meaning. "It's...well, I don't know what is is, Bren. But I – we – we're here. Right?"

"He flew away, Nick." She dug her fingers into his side, harder than the first time, and refused to look at the other side of the room.

* * *

Sleep came easier to Nick than to Brena; he couldn't help it. He'd buried his face in her hair, breathing in ginger, smoke, almonds on her skin, and memories of a dozen Thanksgivings and Christmases. His mind shuffled through meals and presents, ornaments and snowball fights, more than a few lonely holidays spent by himself at his house in Arizona, followed by a few more that were lonely for entirely different reasons. At times, he'd surrounded himself with people whose names he didn't know at parties that weren't important, or brought complete strangers to his house for a night he knew he'd barely remember in the morning.

Shampoo, though, and smoky perfume that reminded him of Christmas – those things, he wanted to remember.

At some point in the night, Brena slipped away from Nick. He vaguely recalled hearing Meredith, her voice heavy with exhaustion and something that registered as regret, tell Brena to come with her, to see him now. Nick thought he should go with them, or say something, make sure Brena knew he was still there, but he couldn't surface fast enough from his sleep – the vigil he'd kept with her at Deaglan's bedside had exhausted him, and while Brena had long since gotten used to running on no sleep, sick or not, Nick couldn't force himself through the fog quickly enough, and she slipped out the door with Meredith, and without a single word from him.

The fixtures were harshly metallic, or worse, a lacquered white that gleamed with an obnoxious cheerfulness under the surgical lighting that flooded the room. The table was pristine – sterile, Brena supposed – and the air was cool and dry. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, when she walked in. Brena knew Deaglan would be there, but his brain would not, and so she found him, on the operating table under a thin white sheet, stark black stitching that someone – probably Meredith – had tried to conceal by placing a pillow under Deaglan's head. The iodine that was swabbed across the back of his skull and down his neck prior to the removal of his brain and portions of his spinal cord had stained his skin and hair an odd, Easter-eggy yellow, and Brena flinched before she put her hand against his face.

"I'm here, Uncle D. I was in the room; Nick was keeping an eye on me – I couldn't come with you, for this."

She paused, thinking, before sitting down on a chair that'd been left near the table, presumably for her.

"Who knows, though. I may come with you, yet."

And with that, Brena started to sing, one hand still against Deaglan, her voice echoing off the fixtures and walls, fighting for space with the chemical smells in the air, the entire room indifferent to her effort and her thoughts.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, review, and message.


	23. Petrichor

Welcome DZSparkle, nimalim, Miss Lori MacManus, NYSTLSportsFan, and WWE1990!

Welcome to the end, as well.

(Part two, any takers?)

* * *

"Bren, honey, you have to pick something." Meredith slid two sheets of high-gloss paper in front of Brena, but she looked helpless in response. _'How'd you manage to not pre-plan any of this? Then again, who plans on meningitis?'_

"Mer, I...I don't have the money for these."

"It's okay, Bren. The hospital is gonna take care of things, remember?"

It was the least Magee could do, all thing considered. Deaglan, despite his physical failings and advanced age, could reasonably have been alive for many more years, had he not contracted meningitis. Meredith barely made it through his autopsy, then broke down entirely afterward, when, despite Dr. Morgan's apologies and best efforts, it became abundantly clear how thoroughly the hospital had failed both Deaglan and Brena.

Meredith shook the thoughts from her head, feeling as blanched and worn as Brena looked, and tried again. "Did Deaglan like oak? Try to think, Bren. Pick something you know he'd like. Or that Hazel would have wanted to see him in. It's hard now, but you'll hate yourself later if you don't decide."

"Yes. Yes, uh...the oak. Can we take a break, Meredith? I'm...dizzy, I think." Brena struggled to force her mind back to the task at hand, lost in what was both too-much and not-enough information.

Having no idea if Brena had picked the oak because it was the first suggestion, or because she really thought Deaglan would have wanted it, Meredith nodded. "C'mon. Let's get something like lunch in you." Nodding at the funeral director, she explained they'd be back in an hour, Meredith leading Brena from the building and helping her walk the few blocks over to a diner. There, they ordered a single cup of soup, Brena's eyes pleading with Meredith to not make her eat the whole thing.

An hour later, soup half-eaten, Brena and Meredith staggered back to the funeral home to finish selecting hardware for the casket and fonts for the funeral program. It was all Brena could do to get the key in the lock to the door of her brownstone at the end of the day; Meredith drove her back home on the way to a late shift at the clinic.

In the brownstone, Brena traced lines through the dust on the furniture, the tips of her fingers not knowing where to start or stop. Slumping down the wall next to her closet, she had no real desire to pick out a funeral outfit, but knew it had to be done. "At least it's something I _should_ do," she mumbled to herself, "And, likely not something I can make a mess of. Formal, black, and proper. Come on. I can do this."

Sliding hangers back and forth, she paused before continuing. "I certainly can't do much else. I've proven that." Brena knew if she hadn't had Meredith around to walk her through planning Deaglan's funeral, she'd have been lost. Still worn down from the flu, it was nearly impossible for her to focus through the exhaustion and worse, the heartbreak – thankfully, the ties she and Deaglan had forged in the neighborhood were strong enough to pick up where she fell down. The pub offered to cater the reception, the florist across the street provided arrangements, and the bakery below the brownstone kept Brena swimming in pastries and coffee, through truth be told she'd continued her trend of barely eating. Her mind swam from Deaglan to the funeral to Nick and back again, finding no shallow, calm water in which to tread. Brena hadn't been able to save Deaglan, and now knew Deaglan wouldn't be able to save Nick.

"Tomorrow. It's over tomorrow. I just have to make it one more day."

Brena picked up her phone and started to dial Magee, then stopped and backspaced over the digits. She wanted to talk to Nick, but he already had her phone number. _'If he wanted to talk to me, he'd likely have called by now. What I did...I feel horrible. I can't go back and fix it, though, and truth be told, I'm not sure I want to. One selfish thing.'_ Spending even part of that night next to him in bed was comfort she could hold onto, though she wasn't sure he felt the same.

* * *

"I should be there," Nick growled at his phone, which sat silently attached to its charger, "I should be _helping_ her. _Doing_ something." He snatched up his phone and stabbed in the main number to the WWE offices in Stamford, shocked he could still pull it from memory – and then just as shockingly, wishing he couldn't. He wadded up the corner of the peacock quilt in his fist as he dialed, having been assured by Meredith that the fabric wasn't contagious after so much time; the quilt Brena gave him on his first night at Magee was folded neatly at the foot of his bed.

A heated conversation ensued; Nick was adamant that, with only a week and a half left on his stay at Magee, the Talent Relations department should be able to spring him for a few hours in order to attend a funeral. Upon hearing exactly who had passed away, he was immediately funneled to Media Relations, who told him that of course he could attend the funeral. He'd just have to do so with a camera crew following him, since the concussion awareness media blitz the WWE attempted had been cut short.

"But...wait. Deaglan didn't have a concussion. He had Alzheimer's, and that wasn't what...I mean...I don't get what you want me to do?"

"It doesn't matter. He's what can happen after too _many_ concussions. Brain injuries. Whatever. The whole point of this is-"

"You want to send _cameras_ to film a _funeral_?" _'You want to send camera crews to_ this _funeral? To follow Brena around? What, so Byron motherfucking Saxton can ask her where she got the cinnamon rolls from and how she feels about helmets in rugby? So JBL can take his hat off, look solemn, and announce it was the old fucker's time anyway?'_

"Part of your treatment was supposed to include raising concussion awareness, and that didn't hap-"

"No! No. Not fucking happening, no fucking way. Do you understand what-"

"Your choice. Call us back if you change your mind, but know that you're not doing yourself any favors. You're not exactly a media presence, right now. The _only_ reason we can't _make_ you do this is because it involves _your_ medical condition, which is considered confidential. And besides, wouldn't...whatever he name is...want more people to know about brain injury? You're not thinking long te-"

Nick threw his cell phone down against his bedside table, disconnecting the line. The sound was harsh and loud in the smaller single-room he'd been moved to. Dr. Morgan had offered a new roommate to Nick upon Deaglan's death, and not only did Nick struggle for a polite way to reject the gesture, he struggled to sit on his hands and not punch the doctor in the face in response to the way he'd treated Brena when her uncle died.

"Today. That fucking funeral – and reception – they're today. And I'm not gonna be there."

His cell phone remained at his bedside the entire day, Nick not thinking once that he could call Brena and make sure she was holding up. She'd long-ago given him her phone number – ironically, on the day of the media event that Nick hadn't wanted to go to in the first place – but he'd forgotten to give his number to her, and Brena hadn't pressed for it. Now, caught up in his own thoughts and unaware he was flying around hers, he didn't reach for his phone again – though he absentmindedly touched his lips more than a few times.

* * *

The entire night of Deaglan's death – and the following morning – was shrouded in confusion in Nick's mind, a haze of half-memories he couldn't straighten out. He knew Brena left at some point, with Meredith, to see Deaglan after the autopsy. After that, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He was exhausted, and he assumed at some point he'd feel the mattress sink a bit next to him, Brena crawling back under the quilt and curling into his side, but she never came back.

He'd paced the room later that morning, tempted to look through her photo albums, but unsure if it was too much of an intrusion. Nick didn't want Brena to walk in on him rifling through her things, but she didn't show up during AM shift. The nap he tried to take in the afternoon was slow in coming and unsatisfying when it happened, Meredith was nowhere to be found – probably with Brena, Nick thought – and neither lunch nor dinner were appealing, though whether that was from poor kitchen decisions or his own lack of appetite, he wasn't sure. He didn't know why he expected Brena to show up, given that it hadn't even been 24 hours since her uncle had died, but he hoped something would bring her back to the hospital – even that he would be the thing to bring her back.

Nick finally caved and asked for medication to help him sleep once the midnight shift arrived, he figured there was no other way he'd get any rest at all that night. He didn't know where Brena was, he was sick with grief over Deaglan and couldn't understand why or how the man had come to mean so much to him, and was strangely angry that nobody – Brena included – had come to him to tell him what was going on. Eleven PM slowly rolled into midnight, and Nick finally rolled to face away from the door, unwilling to fight the medication any longer and thus, unable to hold vigil for the woman he wasn't sure would come back.

Had he shown more patience, he would have been rewarded – asking for the medication nearly proved to be his undoing. Close to 2 AM, Brena crept into the room with an oversized canvas tote, the colors shockingly bright and cheerful considering what she was about to do. Carefully, quietly, she began to pack Deaglan's photo albums and books into the bag, stopping here and there to fold a shirt or straighten a pair of pants, stopping more often to simply rest against the edge of the bed, exhausted from her battle with the flu. Brena looked at Nick more than once while she worked, eventually wandering over to straighten out the quilt with the peacock – he was bundled under it, and she fervently hoped it'd been washed – and then again to fold the quilt she'd given to him. The longer Brena was in the room, the more restless he became – something in the back of his mind demanded that he wake up, that the ginger that filled his dreams was real – and he eventually tossed and turned to the point that his hair fell across his face and his quilt slipped down the bed. Unable to suppress a small laugh, Brena walked to Nick's bed for what she knew would be the last time – Deaglan's bags were packed, and there was nothing left to do.

"Well, mo trodaire," she began, pulling his quilt up and smoothing the edges, "I don't suppose either one of us ever figured out how to say things, did we? I can try, now, but it won't be quite right. Or fair."

Convinced he'd heard something worth waking up for, but still absolutely snowed from the medication, Nick struggled to open his eyes, giving up halfway through in favor of grumbling something about birds that Brena couldn't quite make out.

"Oh, I know, Nick," Brena continued, "Deaglan didn't give either one of us any clues with that. Birds. He loved Hazel, and Hazel loved her birds. Wise owls, fancy peacocks, even pigeons in the park. Swans, in particular, and cardinals. Swans mate for life, did you know that? Cardinals don't, though. The males are quite showy. Loud, and showy. They're red, though, and you...well, I don't think there's a bird out there quite like you." She smiled, a gentle expression, and the first time her face showed any peace across it for several days.

Trying again, Nick lifted one of his arms, unable to coordinate anything better than to drop it across his chest, and turned half onto his side, searching out the ginger perfume he was certain was getting stronger by the second.

He was right; Brena was leaning forward over the edge of his bed, over him, and her voice had dropped to a whisper. "First, you were mo trodaire. Now...mo éan síoliteach. No swans in my life, I suppose. You fly away, Nick." Cautiously, lightly, she leaned over him, brushed his hair back, and kissed him. Nick tilted upward ever so slightly, aware of the gentle pressure of her lips against his, and his hand found hers against his face. Brena, unwilling to test the difference between reflexes and consciousness, backed away from him and slid from the edge of the bed. Her actions crossed over a thousand of her own personal lines, and she snatched her tote from Deaglan's old bed as she sped from the room, refusing to look behind her.

Half-convinced it was a dream, Nick didn't get up to go after Brena. He blinked thickly, trying to decide if he was still in his room at Magee or had somehow gone somewhere else – maybe her brownstone, maybe back to Arizona, even a hotel room would do – and absentmindedly touched his lips. His fingertips came away tacky; she'd worn some kind of lipgloss or chapstick that tasted like honey and was just heavy enough to remind him she'd been there. Nick knew he needed to get up and tried to organize himself to follow her, but by the time he made it to his doorway, Brena was long gone. A nurse he didn't recognize looked up from the desk, shrugged, and went back to her charts.

"Did...uh, did Brena go-"

"She left. Had a tote bag with her, said the funeral was tomorrow. Why, is there a problem?"

Nick started to speak, then shook his head. "No. Not – uh – no, nothing. Thanks." He turned back to his room, forcing his eyes away from Deaglan's bed, but when they landed on his own – empty, lonely – he felt something wrench inside of him. Another empty bed, another set of cold sheets, and Nick pulled the pillow Brena gave him firmly into his side, daring himself to do anything other than pretend it was her for the night. "Everyone loves the Show Off," Nick whispered to himself, "But who loves..." He sighed, and his throat caught. "Fuck it. Fuck all of it."

* * *

The funeral was equal parts somber and sweet; Meredith stayed by Brena's side as though they were literally joined. Brena could hardly hold herself up due to the physical and emotional exhaustion, but managed to stand and sit as needed. As people spoke in the church, their memories of Deaglan and Hazel filling the space with warmth, Brena managed a few smiles, using the forward-looking expression as an opportunity to crane her head around and scan through the crowd. She appeared to be looking for someone, and Alison couldn't resist waving at her, though Meredith shut her down with an angry glare. Time In A Bottle was played as the recessional, though Brena was crying too hard at that point to do anything more than choke and gasp along. Meredith could feel everything in Brena pull to go up to the casket one last time, to hold her uncle and not let go, demand that someone try something, anything, to fix what had gone wrong, to not force her be alone with her thoughts.

Hosting a reception was practically a requirement; Meredith had no idea how Brena would hold up through it after the burial. She'd tried to lunge away from Meredith's grasp more than a few times, as though she meant to lay down with her uncle in the ground and stay with him and Hazel in a permanent fashion, and Meredith worried she'd leave bruises on Brena's arms if she gripped her any tighter. The wind whipped around them; November wasn't a forgiving month, and Meredith wrapped her coat around Brena, though it hung off of her awkwardly.

Meredith had been looking around as well, shocked that Nick hadn't shown up and had now, officially, missed the entirety of Deaglan's funeral and burial. _'It's all awkward and wrong now, Brena, coat or no coat. And where the fuck is Nick? He should be here, be doing this.'_ As though she could read Meredith's thoughts, Brena turned to look up, tugging on Meredith's shirtsleeve like a small child after the graveside service was finished and the crowd had dispersed.

"He didn't come, did he?" Somewhere between sad and resigned, Brena's question was quiet and flat as cardboard.

"No, Bren. I don't think he did."

"It...well, maybe it was his company? I don't know. I did it all wrong, Mer. I shouldn't – shouldn't – I was so stupid, Meredith, I went back to the room!"

Trying to quiet her and calm her, Meredith pulled Brena down to the ground, wrapping her arms around her and tucking the top of her head under her chin. She tried to smooth down her hair, find a tissue to stem the tears, but realistically, she knew it was all useless. Brena's emotions started to bleed through, finding any crack in her resolve to push against.

"Okay, Bren, you went back to the room. Did he say something to you? You had to pick up Deaglan's things, I know, but-"

"No, Meredith, I kissed him! He was asleep, and then he wasn't, and I kissed him! What was I doing? I've lost my mind, Meredith, I could just die. Why did I – what – what did I _do_? _That's_ why he didn't come here, it was what _I_ did!"

Furious, Meredith had to take several deep breaths before attempting to speak. Brena cried wildly, for everything she'd lost, Hazel and Deaglan first, and then Nick through what she felt were her own ill-advised actions.

"Bren, listen to me. You've gotta take a couple deep breaths and calm down, you still have the reception to get through. You kissed Nick?" Brena nodded mutely, looking like she expected a ruler to come down across her knuckles. "Okay. That's okay, Bren. I don't think that's why he's not here." _'If he wants to keep his nuts attached, that better not be why he isn't here. I could fuckin' kill him right now.'_ Meredith cleared her throat, hard, and continued. "Bren...you and Nick were dancin' around that for months. It's okay that it happened. If he could be here, I think he would."

"No, Meredith," Brena whispered, "It's all done, now."

* * *

Meredith dropped Brena off at the church hall, waiting for the bakers from the shop underneath her brownstone to pick her up carside and walk her in, before she left for Magee. She'd taken as much time off as she could to help Brena, and her job, unfortunately, required her to be present physically, if not mentally. After Brena's graveside revelation, she wasn't sure it was a good idea that she be so close to Nick – she knew she'd have words with him – but she also knew his response would dictate quite a bit of their interaction. Changing from funeral garb to scrubs in the staff locker room, she checked his chart, prepped his antibiotics, and headed for his new room.

After checking in with the main desk, she walked into Nick's room, a loaded syringe in her hand, and he cringed back. The syringe was large, the liquid in it looked thick, and his arms still ached from the two immunizations he'd already received. His response to Meredith's presence had more to do with the look on her face than the implement in her hand, however.

"Uh, Mer? You okay?"

"No. Now give me your arm."

"Mer, really. You should talk. What's going on?"

Snatching his arm toward her, Meredith stabbed the needle downward, Nick jumping further back into his bed as she connected with his arm. "This will make you tired, nauseous, and probably disoriented – just what you need. It's a high-powered antibiotic. You never decided what you wanted to do about the meningitis, so I decided for you."

"Just what I needed, right? Something to fuck me up worse?" Nick reached for the quilt.

"You know what? I'm not in the mood to hear about how fucked up you are."

Nick held up his hands in surrender, then winced and pulled his now-sore arm back against his chest. "Okay, Meredith. Okay. Sorry." She huffed and started to stalk from the room, but turned back before leaving.

"Fine. You want to know what's going on, right?"

Nick nodded, and Meredith shut the door heavily. "You never had a person worth being with, so I get why you never said shit, but she _needed_ you to say shit. Say _anything_. Do anything. She's got nobody, right now, and odds are she fuckin' thought she had you. How do you think that feels?"

Sounding as lost as he looked, Nick croaked out half a syllable, but Meredith kept going. ""And not just nobody, she's got _nothing_. Deaglan wanted that study to save people, and it went to shit because Captain Sorostitute came in here with with amounted to the plague and it killed him. Morgan _can't_ use the slides and samples; his data ends 72 hours before we sliced Deaglan's skull open."

Nick stared blankly for a few seconds, trying to wrap his mind around what Meredith said. "But...but...they...I mean, he, Dr. Morgan, he got enough for the study, right?"

"Enough _what_ , Nick?" Meredith continued, on the edge of a rant, waving her hands."We got enough to show that Tau builds up over time. And guess what we already knew? Tau builds up over time. The fever and the swelling damaged his brain beyond use; Morgan can't tell if the tissue damage is all from the Tau, or from the meningitis. All a 'Tau' is, is a curdled protein. Heat curdles proteins. That fever? It _fried_ him. There's nothing Morgan could salvage."

"So...it's meaningless?" Nick refused to process the information Meredith was giving him. It was too cruel, and far too unfair to Deaglan and Brena. "Like...we have to have _something_ , he was here forever!"

"We?" Meredith laughed, and it was cruel. "We have _shit_. We have a timeline for progression of Tau buildup, but _no_ way of knowing when Tau is lethal. When it triggers major negative behavioral changes. People are still going to slit their wrists and shoot themselves after getting tackled too many times."

"Shoot their families, too," Nick muttered under his breath. This was hateful karma, he felt, an evil turn by the universe. Brena was fated to be with Hazel and Deaglan; Nick had felt, at times, that she was fated to find him at Magee, but fated to lose Deaglan for no reason at all? He refused to believe that.

Meredith either didn't hear him, or didn't care, and kept talking. "Blame Deaglan for being too fuckin' happy, because he never _showed_ negative behavior. It _all_ was useless. Every spinal tap, every blood draw, every 4-AM wakeup. All pointless. Now? Now, Brena's out there right now with no people, no purpose, and nothing to go home to. A home she doesn't even fuckin' want to go home to, more like, because it's goddamned empty. And she like as not thought she'd at least have you to hold on to, Nick."

"Wait. Because he was happy, even the beginning was useless?" He chose to ignore Meredith's comment about Brena; it was all he could do to understand what she was telling him about Deaglan.

Exasperated, Meredith stomped up to Nick's bed, stabbing her pen through the air. "He never got sick enough from the Alzheimer's to be useful to the study. And it's a _case_ study, there's not another "Deaglan" in another bed, that we can pull from. All the beginning data does is confirm what we know. What nobody could pin down was when elevated Tau levels began to not just correlate with, but actually cause, harmful behaviors. Deaglan was supposed to be the pin. The fulcrum."

Nick pushed her pen away, silently, but the grief in his eyes was immense – and completely lost on Meredith, who continued. "If he ever started to cuss people out, hit people, be completely non-responsive, _that_ was the Tau level we were looking for. And we got "unresponsive" in spades, but we also got a whole shitheap of meningitis to go with it."

"So...then..."

"So, no, to answer your question, the study didn't work. He didn't help anybody. They both tried to help you, you fuckin' bint, but look how that worked out."

"I didn't give him meningitis!" Nick knew his words were stupid, but it was all he could process in the moment.

"No, you didn't. And you didn't give Brena the flu, but you know what else you didn't do? You didn't give either one of them anything to hold on to."

"Okay, now, hold the fuck on," Nick, brokenhearted over a hundred things he couldn't word properly, exploded. "She walked in here in the middle of the night, kissed me after she packed up some of Deaglan's stuff – she was fuckin' emotional – and left me a couple quilts. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

"Anything! Nick, fucking anything! Kiss her back! Call her! She said you haven't even _talked_ to her, she thinks she completely fucked up with you."

"No," Nick looked aghast, "No, she...she didn't. I just… What am I supposed to say to her now? Nice technique, bad timing, hope you feel better soon? I don't know what to _do_ with this, Meredith!"

"She is _not_ your ex, you asshole. Amy, or whatever the fuck her name was. She's taken everything you've thrown at her, and taken it on gladly, when she _should_ have been focused on her uncle. Brena made time for you, made space for you, and loved you."

"She lo- no. No, Meredith, Brena is a lot of things, but not – no. She's not. She cared about me, I'm gonna give you that one, but she didn't-"

"Why couldn't you just _call_ her, Nick? Honestly, tell me why." Meredith's voice was suddenly shaky, quiet, as if everything had gone out of her and wouldn't ever go back in.

"She was at a fucking _funeral_ , Meredith, _what_ was I supposed to do?" Nick hissed at her, beyond fury, beyond heartbreak, and fully into a space that he couldn't name. "I kinda recall people frowning on cell phones at things like that. Wouldn't she be, oh, I don't know - _busy_?"

"Busy. Right. Like she's gotta fit this in between groceries and picking up the dry cleaning. You really think she wouldn't just dip off for a minute to make sure you're okay?" Nick looked confused more than anything, so she continued. "And yeah, Blondie, make sure _you_ were okay. You're the one stuck here."

Hurt, hotly angry, Nick spat back at her, the words out before he could think them through. "And phones work two fuckin' ways, Mer. In _and_ out. She coulda called me. _You_ could call, if it was so fuckin' important!"

"I don't have your number, asshole, and neither does she. She gave _hers_ to _you_ , remember? Not the other way around? And...you didn't see her, Nick. She doesn't remember to breathe unless someone tells her. I was standing with her graveside and pulling her back off the edge because she was going to climb in _with_ him. She couldn't spell her name right now, let alone think that anyone would want to talk to her while she's falling apart. It's Brena. She feels inconvenient."

"Meredith...how was I supposed to know?" Defeated by the finality of death and the idiocy of his inactions, Nick finally gave up. "And, fine, you're right, I fucked up, but now that I know...what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to know this because you know her! Because you were eight feet away from her uncle when he died and you're going through this shit, too, right along with her! However you feel, she's a hundred times worse and she's _alone_ right now." She threw her pen at him, bouncing it off his shoulder. "And do? Fix it! Fuckin' call her! Talk to her voicemail, talk to her, find a goddamned carrier pigeon if you have to! You need to do something, for both of you, because if you don't do it soon, she's gone. She's got nothing to come back here unless it's for _this_. Her uncle's _dead_ , Nick. She packed his things. If she doesn't come back for you, that's that. Done." Meredith's shoulders drooped, and she continued, quietly. "I'm supposed to get a few more things boxed up for her and bring them to the brownstone, and that's that. Brena really _isn't_ coming back here, Nick. She's done. She can't, anymore."

Meredith turned to go, and Nick's hands flew to the quilt, wadding it up around his face and breathing as deeply as he could, trying to pull every atom of Brena that he could out of the fabric. Shakily, he reached for his phone, and dialed – of all people – Claudio, who answered far faster than Nick expected him to.

"My friend, it is good to hear from you. I was beginning to worry; the funeral was today."

"Wait – what? How did you know?"

"Brena talked to me not too long ago. She sounded like she was at a gathering of some sort, not the wake, that is past...no...no, a reception! She said she was at the reception."

"Wait, _what_?" Nick was stunned. "Brena called you? And talked to you? How did she – I mean, why – no, what-" Nick managed a rapid stutter, but nothing that even approached coherent.

"I gave my phone number to her when I visited. She...she is in a bad way, Nick. Her heart, it is broken. Firmly. She was sorry she did not see you, today, though her words were confusing. Brena believes she has hurt you somehow? I told her this was not possible. Still, my friend, you should talk to her."

Mouth hanging open, Nick sat in complete silence, head spinning, listening to Claudio mutter in the background about technology being a modern horror and repeatedly asking if the call had dropped. Once he gave up and ended the call, Nick stared at his phone, winding up several times to hurl it into the wall across from him, but ultimately giving up and dropping the phone into his lap.

 _'I fucked up, again. It probably took whatever she had left for her to come back here and pack up and then kiss me – and she kissed me – and I know she knows why I couldn't be there, but I shoulda called. Why didn't I call? Why am I not calling now?'_

On the last point, Nick's mind offered no answers. He lifted his phone from his lap – cautiously, as thought it could hurt him further – and began to dial Brena's number, unsure of what to say, but knowing that it was more than obligation or morbid curiosity about how she was doing. This time, it was need.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, followed, even just dropped in and read for a bit - and I promise, if you want it, there's more Brena and Dolph to be had.


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